


Lassoed Hearts

by MindWideOpen



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1800s, Action, Adventure, Angst, Corporal Punishment, Crime, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Forbidden Romance, Historical, Historical Romance, History, Outlaw, Questionable Consent, Romance, Western, Western Romance, Wild West
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:46:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 151,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6461845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindWideOpen/pseuds/MindWideOpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She went to the West to marry her childhood sweetheart but finds her life totally turned upside down when she catches the obsessive gaze of a charming, but deadly, outlaw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will have moments of questionable consent.

1871

Seated in a first class carriage, next to a window that would not open, the woman from Rhode Island sat sweltering in the desert heat. Though New England summers were far from tame most years, and the young woman was not a stranger to oppressive heat, she found herself suffering quite severely as the train plunged further into the orange void.

A large blob of sweat fell down from her damp hair, the heavy mass of fabric that cocooned her burning body making the terrible ache in her head grow. She had given up on reading more than an hour previous, but it had only forced her to turn her eyes outward to relieve her terrible boredom. From time to time she might spot a magnificent rock structure kissing the sky in the distance. She would stare for as long as she could, and once gone, she set out in search for the next.

But staring out into the void did nothing but remind her of home. She thought of the green of her back yard, the red and purples in the garden and the live saving swimming hole in the Fleischman estate. Her parched throat turned dryer and her tongue desperately attempting to bring dampness back to her mouth.

Her head continued to throb in time with the train. The constant _chug, chug, chug,_  brought a brand new pang of pain in her temples, the dull throb behind her eyes. It would all be worth it in the end. She never once doubted that the weeks of such horrific travel was but a small price to pay for the joy she would find on the other end of the country.

California was waiting and there, the love of her life. Expressive chocolate eyes, a warm, loving smile, and a full head of neatly combed black hair came to mind. So kind, gentle, and sure, she longed for the moment she would step off the train in California and run into his arms. He had gone away three years ago with a promise. He would go west, make a fortune that her father could not refuse, and send for her. And true to his word, he had done all three.

She was thinking of his smiling eyes, the shape of almonds, when the chugging slowed. The throbbing in her head continued on the path for so long that it was not until she heard the high pitched screeching of the train coming to a halt that she realized the _chug chug chug_ she still heard was in her head.

She looked around toward the old grey woman two seats behind her and found her to be equally as bewildered. She knew not the distance, but she knew they were hours yet from the next station. Suddenly, the words her brother had spoken when he dropped her off at the Texas border came to mind and her heart rate quickened, her extreme discomfort momentarily forgotten.

She reached down and grabbed the carpet bag at her feet, covering the book still resting open in her lap, and clutched it with trembling hands. The _chug chug chug_ of her brain intensified but she did not feel it. She only heard it.

“Outlaws!” a frightened woman at the back of the car whimpered, holding her children close to her breast.

“Oh, may God have mercy,” the grey woman murmured, crossing herself and pulling out an ornate rosary. The young traveler looked to her carpet back, trying to unfasten the buckle with hands shaking so terribly, she could not even get a firm grip on the metal.

It was with impressive speed that the outlaws made their appearance. They heard them coming, from the back and the front, but there was no time to prepare. One man came in from the back, two from the front.

She looked down at the carpet back, her movements halted. She began her prayer. The brim of her hat fell downward, covering her sweating face from the gaze of the three criminals now in their car. She focused not on her fear, the terror or agony. She focused only on trying to keep her meager breakfast from swelling up from her stomach and spilling out onto the carpet bag clutched so tightly in her hands.  

“Alrighty, now, ladies and gents,” a masculine voice made its way through the car, light and amused. “Now I don’t wanna hurt nobody and I aint gonna, you hear? Not as long as you do as I say. Now, would y’all be so kind as to please place your belongins on the outside of your seats right by the floor. We’ll just snatch those up and be on our way.”

He clapped his hands together at the front of the car and she hugged the bag closer to her. She heard the soft scramble behind her, listened as personal belongings were being placed on the floor by the different seats. She clutched the bag more tightly. They would have her items in storage. They could not have this bag.

“Ay, girlie,” another man said. She flinched as a firm hand slapped her shoulder. It was a gentle touch, meant to coax, not hurt, but she let out a muffled whimper all the same. “Give it here.”

She shook her head, pressing her chin to her chest.

“Ay,” the man said again, this time more gruffly, and she felt hands reached for the back. Tears came to her eyes as her fear exploded but she shook her head. She pushed herself back, trying to move more deeply into the seat. The man put a hard grip on her bag and yanked, but she held firm, pulling back with more force. The grated curse “Bitch” left the man’s grinding teeth as he tugged one more time.

“Hey, hey, hey,” the first man to speak said. His voice was soft and still light, friendly. “Now, that ain’t how we treat a lady. Let it go. Let it go, Jeb. Go on. Get those bags, get ‘em.”

The man’s hands left her bag and she felt him move away. She kept her face down, adjusting her hold on the bag. Her muscles tightened when the brim of her hat was lifted upward, revealing her face to his gaze. Her face was down, eyes closed but she felt him lean against the back of the seat before her, knew his gaze was on her.

“My, my, you’re a pretty thing,” he murmured. He clicked his tongue and she felt him near her. “Now now, no need for tears. I told you, we ain’t gon’ hurt nobody that does what their told. Now, open those pretty eyes and look at me. It’s rude.. to ignore a man when he’s talkin’ to you.”

Her eyes opened and she looked up, lower lip trembling wildly. The man’s eyes were alight with excitement, icy blue eyes brighter than anything she had ever seen before. His hair was covered with a hat, leaving a tanned, leathery face streaked with sweat and dirt beneath a wide brimmed hat.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, thin lips curving into a smile. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

She stared at him, knuckles turning white around the leather of the carpet bag.

“You dumb, girl?” he asked, reaching out and gently unthreading the ribbon holding her hat to her head. Her eyes fluttered closed a moment as he took in her flushed face. “Hmmm?”

She shook her head, forcing her eyes open.

“You sure? You may be dumb but you are a pretty one. Come now, what’s your name, pretty, dumb girl.”

He reached up a calloused, sandy sand and nudged her white hat up, knocking off her head and letting it fall to the seat beside her. The heat suddenly became less oppressive and her lips parted as she sucked in a deep breath.

“Ara-arabella,” she finally got out, swallowing hard, throat scratchy. His little smile widened, revealing a crooked smile of white teeth, two made of gold, an incisor and a bottom front tooth.  

“Arabella. You a yankee, Miss Arabella?” he asked her, tucking a wet strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. She nodded, vocal cords rebelling. He changed his smile, giving the right side of his face an extra push.

“Now am I gon’ have to take that form you, sweetheart? Or are you gon’ give it to me?”

“My,” she began, voice just a scratch. She cleared it and the outlaw waited patiently. “My picture… of my mama.”

He looked down at the bag, head moving up and down slowly.

“Get it,” he said abruptly and she struggled once more with the buckle. She tried to move quickly, but only made her trembling fingers more impossible to control. So fearful was she that if she did not move quickly enough, he would change his mind, she all but doubled the time.

Her hands were halted by his own large, calloused hands brushing hers out of the way. She looked up at him as he unfastened the buckle and an icy eye winked at her. Once finished she dug her hands inside, reaching for the bottom of the back where the picture lay, wrapped snugly in a piece of cloth. She found it and pulled it free but once she had it on the bench beside her she reached back inside. He looked at her, amused annoyance dancing across his face, swimming in those cold pools.

She retrieved the box that held the necklace she received from her mother her last day at home. He began to click his tongue again, shaking his head.

“No, no, no, darlin’. That looks mighty valuable to me and I’m gonna be takin’ that with me,” he scolded softly, reaching for the box.

“Please,” she whispered, a tear falling down her cheek. She kept her grip firm on the box. His hand wrapped around the other end but he did not try and tear it away.

“Now, Miss Arabella, I’ve been a perfect gentleman, but I’m gonna get frightfully angry if you try and take advantage of my kindness. Now you let that go.”

“My mama –”

“Miss Arabella,” he murmured, bending down to look her more closely in the eye. Those icy depths were suddenly void of lightness, no more friendliness could be found within them. In their place was hardly concealed aggression. “I’m startin’ to get angry.”

She released the box and he placed it back into the bag. He buckled it and slung it to another outlaw by the strap. He leaned back, sunbaked hands on his hips, and looked her over.

“My, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a pretty little thing. All the way from Yankee country. How’s about a little kiss, huh? A thank you?”

She shook her head, stomach in tightly wound knots.

“No? In the south, women know to say thank you to men that do ‘em favors such as this.”

“We are not in the south, sir,” she replied, somehow managing to put a flippant bite into her voice.

“Ooooouweeee!” he tossed his back and said, followed by a little cackle. “Girl’s got a little bit o’ spirit after all.”

He bent down close to her, eyes once more moving rapidly, taking in every aspect of her face. His eyes were once again amused, twinkling with amusement. He smelled like dirt and sweat, but it was not overwhelming nor was it oppressive. As he leaned in, the scent of whiskey was added to the mix. It all mixed into a toxically masculine mix.

Before she could realize what it was he was doing, his lips were on hers. It was forceful, hard, and the grip on her chin ended her retreat before it began. Stubble scratched her chin and the area around her mouth and he extended the kiss a second more, moving his face to intensify the feeling.

Finally, he pulled away, face still close to hers.

“Hmmm, thank you, kindly Miss Arabella, that will see me though many a lonely night.”

He straightened then, tipping his hat to her.

“I do hope we might meet again, in a more… intimate environment?” he winked at her once more and her face burned, itched, and quivered. He reached for her carpet bag and slung it over his shoulder. He looked back to her and tipped his hat with a smile. “Miss Arabella.”

And then he gone. The train empty. Silent, save the soft cries of the children at the back of the car, soon joined by their mother’s soft attempts to sooth them.

Her husband checked on them both, kissed his children, and then moved up the length of the train. She was vaguely aware that he sat down beside her but her face was turned out at the duty window. A group of horses plunged into the desert, toward the large mountains miles and miles and miles in the distance. The sun beat down hard. Her ears were buzzing. The _chug chug chug_ returned full force, but the train remained still.

“Miss?” he asked, southern accent coming out softly from the faceless man’s lips. “Did he hurt you, miss?”

“I…” she began but fell silent. Her eyes were focused on the men as they retreated. She forced her swollen lips into a smile and turned her head. She could do nothing but give him a jerky nod of assent. She looked back to the window and with trembling hands, reached for her hat. Her hand touched the cushioned seat beside her, grey eyes turning downward. She looked at the spot beside her but only found the hat missing. She looked behind and then to her right. The man stood to reveal he had not sat on it.

She looked back to the window. Off in the distance it looked as if one rider had separated from the rest. She was positive, despite the distance, the glaring sun, and the fog of dust, that when he raised his arm to wave at the soon to be departing train, it was her hat he had waving in his hand. 


	2. Chapter 2

2

Arabella was greeted by Thaddeus' cousins when she stepped onto the platform just a few miles east of Santa Fe. Initially, the plan had been to remain with them in the city for a few days and then get onto her next train, but the ordeal with the bandits had thrown everything into chaos. As she stepped off the train, tears only just beginning to fall from her cheeks, the looks on her soon-to-be relative's faces turned from excited smiles to deeply set concerned frowns.

News of the train attack spread like wildfire throughout the small train outpost. Arabella told her cousins with infuriating tears streaming down her cheeks of her own experience. The hours after the encounter with the outlaw, she had managed to hold herself together with poise and dignity. Her mother and father would have been proud of her composure. She was certainly proud of herself.

But it always seemed far more difficult to keep from crying when you had concerned relatives with their faces in your own asking if you were well. Lucille Haverish touched her cheeks, Arabella's own bottom lip quivering, and the look of concern that was rooted deeply in her brown eyes had the tears streaming freely. With trembling muscles and a quivering jaw she began to relay her story, blinking rapidly in her attempts to fight back the treacherous tears.

Christopher Haverish immediately made the decision that Arabella would not be travelling any further west by herself. It had been foolishness to have sent her so far alone as it was. Truthfully, her brother had only just left in her Texas. She had been proud of her ability to maneuver the west on her own. It was another factor that helped sustain the angry tears on her cheeks.

There was little protest from her when Christopher made the decision. She could not quite swallow the fear she now felt. There would be no smothering it the next time she got onto another train. The stories she had heard of the west were suddenly very real. What she had looked on as a far away story of adventure and excitement was now a very real threat to her safety.

She could still feel his lips pressed to hers. She could feel the stubble on his tanned face scratching her smooth skin. She began to stew over the knowledge that he was out there somewhere with all her belongings. Everything of importance in her life she had packed into a single trunk, placed in the cargo cars of the train, and into her new carpet bag. It was not just the fact that those possessions were now gone that had her heart burning with injustice. It was knowing that he was out there with it, poised to make a fine bit of money off of it.

Her lips tingled as they walked to the hotel. They tingled as she spoke to the sheriff and his deputies in the hotel dining room. When Christopher returned from sending the wire to Thaddeus, asking him what it was he wished to do with the rest of Arabella's journey, her lips were still tingling.

They remained at the hotel for two days as they waited for Thaddeus's response. In that time, it was generally decided upon most of those that had witnessed the attack and those that had heard of it afterward that it was 'Friendly Frank' Lawson behind the train attack. In those two days Arabella found out as much as she could about this outlaw.

Unfortunately there was little known about him as an outlaw, and even less known about him as a man. It was believed that he and his posse primarily attacked wagons along back roads, though the train attack shocked no one. With enough people and enough research, it was far from the riskiest of affairs. There were whispers that he had been behind a rash of raids on secluded ranches in Arizona Territory, but many people found that to be a case of misidentification. New Mexico Territory was his stomping grounds. He felt most comfortable here. He was unlikely to stray.

He was southern. Arabella had figured that out by his speech, even before the mention of southern etiquette. But no one could say when he arrived in the west, when he began his life of crime. Every person who had survived an encounter with him, and there were a lot if all witnesses were to be believed, all said the same thing; he was polite, charming, and respectful. He killed, it was said he had a ruthless streak, but it was only when threatened, crossed, or threatened.

His reported charm and respect had the authorities doubtful of Arabella's story. Creases popped up along their eyes, lines deepened in their foreheads, and the edges of their lips pulled downward when she gave her story.

' _Friendly Frank' Lawson would not force a kiss on a well to do woman._

It was said to her with obvious disbelief and the condescension one would use with a child that was telling a fib to stay out of trouble, but in this case, a woman who was trying to tell a good story. When she refused to relent and begged them to find anyone that was in the car with her, they promised they would and went on their way. She was not foolish enough to believe they were telling her the truth.

When word finally arrived from Thaddeus it instructed Christopher and Lucille Haverish to bring her to their Ranch. He would come himself to escort his fantasy to California. It inspired both happiness and regret in Arabella. The prospect of seeing him again, after nearly three years of separation, filled her with untold joy. The thought of lingering in the desert any longer than was necessary was entirely displeasing to her. She would almost rather venture out on her own once more.

_I do hope we meet again, in a more…. intimate environment._

The words radiating in her skull halted her protest before it ever fully formed in her head. They left the hotel that afternoon and moved on toward Santa Fe. There, Christopher would collect supplies he had planned on purchasing after seeing Arabella on a train, and they would all set out to the Ranch together the next day. It was just about half a day's journey, but Christopher would not risk being on the road in the dark. Arabella did not mind that decision.

The heat never seemed to abate. That was what bothered her about the West the most. She only hoped that California would be cooler. Thaddeus had also promised her an ocean. She missed Rhode Island, she missed the ocean. California was supposed to have an ocean of its own. Thaddeus promised her she would see it as often as she liked.

It took two hours to get to Santa Fe. The entire journey Arabella examined the vast, flat, land outside the carriage window. The slightest intrusion into the silence startled her. Muscles tensed and cries left her throat when Lucille asked her how she was doing. Every moment Arabella expected to see a pack of outlaws come riding for their carriage. Her heart thudded beneath her breast and her lips tingled. She could feel his stumble scraping against her skin.

She did not know if she would rather have 'Friendly Frank' Lawson come upon their carriage or some other outlaw if it came to that. The authorities seemed to find it laughable that he had kissed her. Surely he would not allow an outrage. But the kiss _had_ occurred. Perhaps the authorities did not know him as well as they thought they did.

Their arrival in Santa Fe came with no outlaw attacks. They went to the hotel first to be sure they would have a room for the night, but Arabella refused to remain in her room as Christopher went to see to his contacts. Even in this terrible heat she wanted to have something to do.

So she and Lucille went to look at some of the local shops as they waited for Christopher. They parted outside the general store and Christopher gave his wife a kiss to the cheek. Christopher, now nearly fifty, had been thirty four when he met his wife. She had been but sixteen years old. It was not a marriage that was supposed to have been so happy. The love the two shared was as genuine as it was surprising. The girl had come west from Kentucky with her drunkard of a father. After he had drunk himself into an early grave, the young woman struggled to feed herself. No charity existed in the West. Just as she was about to give in and earn what coin she could with her body, Christopher Haverish came into the little western town to find a seller for his live stock.

He spotted Lucille outside the post office, trying desperately to get the postman to take a letter east with him without postage. He offered to pay for it and the letter wet on its way, begging what relatives she still had in Kentucky to help bring her home. He purchased her a room in the little inn, bought her a warm dinner, and went about his day. That night, she came to his door, ready to pay him for his kindness. He refused politely, but the desire in his eyes did not go by unnoticed by the young girl who had learned quickly from a young age how to survive on her own.

When she asked him if he had a wife and received the immediate 'no', she asked him if he wanted one. With the offer made, he took her to his bed that night, and they married the next morning. Lucille had found herself moving from impoverished orphan to the wife of an amazingly successful rancher. In the years that had passed they fell wildly in love.

Arabella had heard that story from her cousin before setting out west but she had not really believed it. Seeing the look in Lucille's eyes now lent the story some credence. Love was unmistakably present, but still shining within them, after twelve long years, was powerful gratitude. The pretty woman had never lost her understanding of the life her husband had saved her from.

She went with Lucille to a number of little shops, but there was nothing there to keep her interest. After spending her life in New Port, having visited both New York City and Boston often in her twenty two years, what was available was rather disappointing.

She waited for Lucille outside a fabric shop. She had to leave the shop after her skin turned hot and she was coated with a layer of sweat. The canopy along the strip of shops helped protect her from the hard beating sun, and there were significantly more people inside than out, leaving the inside of the shot far more oppressive that the dry desert air.  
She gazed out down the one main road that ran through the town. She turned her head left then right. Her eyes were squinting in each direction, the hard dirt bright, windows flashing back the bright sun into her eyes.

With one turn of her head and a single sweep of her eyes she found him leaning up against the wall opposite her, across the busy little lane. Immediately her lips began to tingle again. A phantom kiss pressed hard to her lips. Stubble scratched her cheeks.

Heart pounding hard, her mouth was so dry it almost hurt. Immediately she was immobilized. She wanted to scream but she could not. She wanted to run, but her legs would not move.

Blue eyes cut through the hot haze, pinning her to her spot and a little twitch lifted his lips. As her mouth opened his head tilted to the side, eyes twinkling with a kind of excited amusement. When he saw that no alarm was to be raised the sides of his mouth raised further, one gold tooth coming into view.

_Friendly Frank._

Her eyes moved downward and she watched his fingers play with a scarf wrapped around his neck. It might have the heat, perhaps the fear, or even the excitement, but it took her a long time to realize that it was _her_ scarf he had in his hands. Her eyes darted back up to his and his smile widened further. He raised a finger to his lips and his right eye closed and opened rapidly in a playful wink.

The muscles in her arm tried to bring her hand upward but she refused to let him see her touch her mouth. She could only imagine the smile he might flash her then. Her eyes left him long enough to try and locate the jail. Her head moved side to side, bile rising in her throat. Each moment that passed her fear grew.

She found the jail and took a step forward, looking back to the outlaw only to find him missing. She swallowed hard and scanned the crowed. She searched each person, each face. There were not so many people there that he would get lost in a crowed. If he was there she would find him, but he was gone.

"Arabella?"

She turned her head to look at Lucille and Christopher.

"Are you ill?" Lucille asked, brown creased deeply. Christopher stood behind his wife with a deep frown. "You look pale as a ghost."

"I…" she looked around, making one last attempt to locate 'Friendly Frank'. She looked back to Lucille with a pained smile. "I am just overheated."

"Oh, dear, cold water or iced tea and a short nap will aid you, come now," she said and tried to take hold of Arabella's arm.

"Are you settled with your business?" she asked Christopher.

"I am," he answered. "We will leave sunrise tomorrow."

"Will we make it if we leave today?" she asked. Her heart was still pounding. Christopher's frown deepened and he shook his head.

"We'd arrive too close to darkness, the slightest obstacle and we'll get home in the dark."

"Can we please?" she begged. The creases around his eyes deepened.

"Arabella, I think it best we wait."

"Please?" she begged again. "I am getting anxious. I just want to get somewhere safe."

"We are safe, honey," Lucille began.

"Christopher," she began and but he raised a hand.

"We leave immediately. No rest. We eat on the way," he gave his conditions and a large smile of relief washed over Arabella's flushed cheeks.

"Oh, thank you, Christopher," she said, wrapping him in a tight hug. He allowed it a moment and then pulled back.

"We must hurry."

She did not feel at ease again until they were on the road miles away from Santa Fe and miles away from 'Friendly Frank'.

* * *

It was an hour past sunset when they arrived at the ranch, nestled in a little green pasture by a set of mountains, a river no less than a mile from the main house. The air was still uncomfortably hot when Arabella stepped out of the coach, hand sweaty as she slid it into Christopher's.

In the darkness she struggled to examined the house in any detail, but she was pleased to see it looked like there would be relative comfort inside. Her quick examination of the two story farm house was interrupted as the children came barreling out of the barn behind them, voices crying out in high pitched, echoing hollers that were meant to mimic a savage war party.

It terrified her and the short lived terror was soon replaced with a flair of annoyance. She smiled as the children all took turns hugging their parents. As she waited to be introduced she tried to settle her uneasy stomach and accelerated heart.

The children numbered four. A ten year old named Jesse, an eight year old named Eliza, a five year old called Peter and a pretty little four year old by the name Dotty. Their faces went alight with excitement when they were told that Arabella would be staying with them a few weeks and when they all attacked her with welcoming hugs and excited questions about the East, all of her annoyance disappeared.

"Oh, hush children, we have days to pester her. Jesse, Eliza, go get a dinner together. The two of you inside," Lucille ordered. They went running off with excited giggles and Arabella turned a grateful smile toward her future cousin.

"Thank you," she thanked her with a smile.

"We will have a bed made up for you," Lucille answered and turned to enter the house. The children began lighting candles to better see, running around with dirty feet and tattered clothing. All had bright red faces, a day of fun well spent underneath the hot sun.

Arabella spent most of dinner telling the children about the East and about the parts of the country she had travelled through. It helped take her mind off of the heat and her rather traumatic experience with a marginally famous local outlaw.

She climbed the stairs after dinner, thoroughly exhausted and ready for bed. She was to share a room with the girls but would have her own bed. Neither Eliza nor Dotty seemed to mind surrendering a bed and sleeping with their sister.

The moment she was in bed, eyes closed in the hot, dark room, she saw a pair of icy blue eyes gazing at her from across a hot dusty street. She tried to think of Thad. She wanted to put the entire event behind her and thin of her future, but she could think only of the terrible outlaw known as Friendly Frank.

Once more his stubble was brushing against her face. His mouth was pressed hard to hers in a commanding kiss. The room was suddenly filled with the smell of whiskey, smoke, dirt and sweat. And then his hand was on her throat, his tongue in her mouth, his hand moving up underneath her skirt.

Arabella flew forward in bed. A violent gasp left her and she stared straight ahead through the open window. Sun streamed in through the glass. The sound of laughing and squealing children came in from outside. She looked over and found the bed opposite her made and empty.

She touched her chest, her nightgown soaked through. A rush of air left her in disgust. It was the first night of many in which the outlaw would invade her dreams. His sly smile turned her insides. His face made hers itch. Each night the dreams seemed to grow worse. They became darker, more disturbing.

She prayed to God for forgiveness. She prayed that he would let her heart rest. She knew it was fear that

_I do hope we might meet again in a more… intimate environment._

She had told the authorities about that as well. They believed it as much as they believed her claim he had kissed her. 'Friendly Frank' didn't rape women. Not a single woman had ever claimed outrage. There was not even so much as a claim that one of his posse had ever tried to assault a woman.

Every time she thought of it fresh outrage washed over her. It was one thing not to be believed because they thought her experience too traumatic to properly remember, but those deputies had all but called her a liar. One man's laugh still radiated in her mind.

'Then he.. then he kissed me,' she had admitted, the shame too great to say too loudly. Then his laugh cut through the room and her eyes had landed on his harshly. It did nothing to quiet his laughter.

'Friendly Frank' doesn't force kisses on well to do women,' he had continued laughing.

"Bastard," she murmured, now seated on the bank of the river that ran through a small nestle of trees. The children were splashing a few feet to her left, the littlest ones void of clothes. She could not help but smile as Dotty giggled maniacally at her older brothers doing belly flops in the shallow water.

She had been there nearly a week and a half now and was growing anxious. Thad had said he would come as soon as he could but he had to get some affairs in order. She was more than annoyed that he had not yet arrived. She might have been less annoyed, if he had only sent word. But Thad had not yet come to rescue her and the dreams of that outlaw had not yet abated.

She was frightened to go anywhere alone. She refused to come to the river unless all the children came with her, even on days that were far too hot and the children were stuck doing their chores. She instead took on chores of her own, despite Lucille's scolding.

A week and half removed and she still feared that outlaw's words.

_I do hope we meet again in a more… intimate environment._

She could no longer remember the tone in which it was said. She knew not if it was a taunt, a threat, or a playful flirtation. The deputies would ay playful flirtation, if they even believed she said it. She looked up and scanned the opposite tree line. It still amazed her that just twenty or thirty yards past the thick green trees, was a flat stretch of yellow grass and some miles after that, a hot, dry wasteland. At least here there was grass.

A sinking feeling pulled her stomach to her toes and she looked to her right. A frown settled on her face.

"Jesse?" she called. "Jesse!"

The eight year old turned his head and momentarily ceased his belly flops. His hair was dripping loudly into the flowing stream.

"Would the Wolsey boys be out this time of day?" she asked. Jesse looked over his shoulder. She reached for her dress and began to cover her still damp chemise/drawer combination.

"They'd be workin' the cattle!" Jesse called back and Arabella's heart sped up. She continued to search the tree line but found nothing. She licked up her upper lip nervously and continued dressing.

"Children, come on out, we need to go home," she called, getting to her feet. They all began to cry in protest but she would have nothing of it. She threatened to inform Jesse's parents that he was responsible for the loss of one of their chickens three days prior and he helped round up the other children with butter rumblings.

She looked around the tree line once more and picked up sad little Dotty. Together they returned home. The entire time Arabella had an uneasy feeling about her, but once home, and she looked over the saddened children, she felt both incredibly foolish and terribly guilty.

She apologized to them and promised she would make it up to them. They seemed doubtful, but sheepish Jesse came up to her, hands clasped behind his back, and motioned for her to bend down. She did so and he whispered in her ear. A little smile came to her face and she looked at him with amusement in her eyes.

"I'll see what I can do," she promised and he ran off with a happy smile. Later that afternoon, a few hours before dinner, Arabella snuck into the kitchen and stole a number of fresh cookies from the desert platter. The children all giggled with pleasure as they all piled into the upper loft of the barn, eating illicit cookies in in the safety of their little hideout. Arabella could not help but think they made a fine little outlaw posse.

* * *

Anderson Francis Lawson, known by most as 'Friendly Frank' Lawson, sat crouched in the bush, easily hidden by the thick brush, with a pretty pink shawl held up to his nose. He breathed in deeply, taking in the last of the pretty Yankee girl's scent from the fabric. Soft cotton, expensive silk, pretty lace. The markings of a woman from the highest levels of society.

Excitement had coursed through him when he arrived at Miguel's outpost and opened the carpetbag he had taken from the scared little Yankee girl. _Miss Arabella_ , he had murmured, reaching inside and pulling out a pretty silk nightgown. The shawl he had taken a liking to immediately. The rest of the clothing he pawned off or given to friends who wanted to see their whores wear something a bit cleaner.

He had been at the Haverish ranch for three days now. Members of his posse were located at different locations at different distances from the home. Ranch raids had always made his nervous. It was unlike the stopping of a train or a stage coach. There were more variables that were fluid and nearly impossible to pin down without intensive surveillance. Sometimes months of it.

How many people were in the home? How many guns did the family possess? How many of the family members could wield those weapons? We the men ex-soldiers? Were there dogs? How many? How big? How _vicious?_

It was far too easy to have someone step out from a dark corner and put a bullet in the back of his head. But there were two things that made the risk worth it. The amount and quality of the Haverish cattle, and the beautiful young woman that had consumed his thoughts, waiting just inside those walls for him.

Miguel Dominguez came to crouch beside him, spitting a wad of tobacco onto the ground beside them.

"Boy's are getting restless," he told him in Spanish. Francis looked down the sloping hill at the ranch two miles off in the distance. He lowered the shawl and spit into the dirt at his boots.

"We do this clean," he said and sniffed in hard through his nose. He cleared his throat, spit once more, and then raised the shawl. "Your boys now the rules? I'll put a bullet in 'em otherwise."

"They know," Miguel answered. Francis nodded and got onto his feet. He moved over to his horse and jumped on, patting his large, powerful neck.

"Two miles down, the rendezvous point, one hour. I wan' talk to 'em first. I ain't takin' any chances."

Miguel gave a wave of a dark hand and Francis whirled his horse to the side. He gave the house one more long glance, and then dug his heals into the horse. He rode off hard, muscles twitching with anticipation.

* * *

Arabella awoke to the sound of heavy boots running up the stairs and immediately knew something was terribly wrong. The second her eyes popped open and the black of night came into view adrenaline began to course through her veins.

It all happened so fast she could not really pinpoint when she came to what conclusions. Even as slid into her trunk she was not entirely sure if it was Friendly Frank behind the attack. She did know they were being attacked however.

She looked for the two little girls, but found them nowhere in sight. Her stomach twisted into terrified knots and she threw her blankets to the side. She scanned the room for them, for any sign, but found none. With sickening regret, but no other options available to her, she emptied her trunk, shoved everything beneath her bed, and slipped inside.

Her mind raced as she thought of her actions. She should have tried to find the little girls. But just as her trunk snapped shut, her arms, legs, and neck arched painfully so she could fit, the bedroom door was thrown open. One part of her brain told her had she stayed to try and find the girls she would not be in their grasp. Another part of her brain told her she should have risked her own safety for the safety of the children.

Eyes squeezed shut she waited, heart thudding loudly in her ears. The trunk was already beginning to grow unbearably hot. Sweat trickled down her chest, hair now damp. She struggled to keep her breathing slow and steady.

The voices she heard spoke Spanish and her insides went cold. Suddenly there was fear like that of which she had never felt. Somehow, possibility that it could be Friendly Frank, as unlikely as it was, had kept some of his fear at bay. A large part of her had taken some sort of stock in the condescending deputies dismissals of her fear. He had been polite, he had let her keep her picture of her mother, he had told her sternly but kindly when he had begun to lose patience with her. This was a new added element of the unknown.

She said a silent prayer a she listened, closing her eyes tightly. The door shut and she heard heavy boots walking from the room. A breath left her and she thanked the lord. Now all she need do was wait and hope for the best.

But then she heard a whimper followed by an urgent, rushed hushing whisper. Her stomach fell to her toes and she was throwing the trunk open. The fresh air, though still hot, cooled her over heated skin and she crouched onto the floor, crawling across the smooth wood on her hands and knees.

"Eliza, Dotty," she rushed out a whisper. She found them beneath their beds, clutching at each other tightly. "Come here, quickly, in the trunk. Come now."

The girl trusted her and obeyed with small trembling bodies. She got them into the trunk, tugging at the latching hole so some fresh air would reach them if they needed to spend a long time in there. She broke the latch off and then looked over her shoulder with wide eyes. She heard more voices now coming up the stairs and she slid beneath her bed. She tried to hide herself with her clothing, but the door opened and she ceased her movements. Only half covered, she could not risk making any more noise. She only hoped the children would remain quiet.

"Someone slept in that bed," a voice now said in English.

"An this'n," another added. She watched the boots thud across the floor, spurs jingling loudly with each step.

"Not climin' outa this window."

She watched as a head dipped down, looking underneath the bed the two little girls had just been hiding under. Just as he was about to turn his head and fix his gaze on her, another set of spurs jingled, stopping in the hallway.

"Got a little boy jammed up 'neath his bed. Sniveling like a little baby."

"Well get 'im."

"I aint touching him. Covered in his own piss."

Arabella's eyes closed and her face turned into a pained frown.

"He aint goin' anywhere."

Suddenly the man crouched back down and his eyes found her in an instant. His face turned into a terrifying smile. He was young, looked younger than even Arabella, and looked far too excited. Her blood ran cold at the look in his eye.

"This ones pretty. Bet she's not covered in piss neither."

She smothered a cry as he moved toward her, two other sets of feet walking toward her. She pressed herself against the far wall, tears of terror coming to her eyes. The young criminal got onto his stomach and extended a hand toward her.

She kicked out hard with her foot. It collided with his nose and he cried out in pain. It only succeeded in making him angry and he reached out again. She tried to kick. Once she got his hand, successfully kicking him away. But after the third kick he grabbed her ankle and pulled. She slid through her limited items, the ones Lucille had given her.

"Bitch," the young man bit out. She let out a cry of anger and threw a punch but he caught her wrist and got to his feet. He seized her with a painful grip to her hair and yanked.

"Idiot!" one of the other criminals cried and shoved him away. His hands kept its grip on her hair and she cried out in pain as her head was jerked to the side. "Let her fuckin' go!"

The hand suddenly left her hair and she bolted. The ran from the room, ducked down the hall, and hurried for the crawl space. She only hoped she could in there before they were able to relocate her once more.

* * *

Francis heard the sound of feet running across the floor and looked up with a jerk of his head. The owner of the ranch and his wife were bound securely in the corner with one of their four children. The boy, the eldest, pressed his face to his mother's breast, both crying softly. The man stared at him with murder in his eyes, but he ignored him. Vengeful fathers came only from murdered children. God willing, there would be no murder here tonight.

He looked to Miguel and jerked his head toward the Rancher and his workers. Three hands sat nestled in the same corner, bound tightly and pressed closed to the frightened family. He moved to the stairs and climbed it calmly, stopping at the top step.

Billy Fischer, Ed 'Black Jack' Warner and John Canton came out of a room into the hall, looking around frantically.

"Girl went runnin'," Black Jack told him.

"Idiot nearly scalped her," John said, jerking an angry thumb toward Billy. Francis looked toward the youth, a scowl coming to his face. He reached up and touched the shawl around his neck, bringing it to his nose. He looked around the upper floor, anxiously scanning the dark rooms.

It was a tradeoff he preferred to accept. Attack in the day and you risked visitors, men coming home to eat, people moving in and out of different rooms. He'd rather face the dark corners.

"That room empty?" he asked.

"Think so."

" _Think so?_ " he asked sharply.

"A little boy in that room there and in there I think –"

"Get the boy, find the little girls, and get 'em downstairs."

He watched the three men scatter back into the rooms and waited. Finally they left the with little children, all crying, and scrambling in the men's arms. He waited until they were behind him, halfway down the stairs, and then called out.

"Now I know you're in here, darlin'," he called. He remained rooted to the spot. He would not risk going into any of the rooms himself. "Now come on out and talk to me."

He waited, listening to the quiet house. She heard only the soft cries of the children downstairs.

"Come on out, sweet Yankee girl," he called again. He played with the shawl around his neck. His skin heated with anticipation. "Now if I hafta ask again, I'm gonna get plenty angry and when I get angry people die."

He waited again, listened intently, and then gave himself a small nod.

"Alright then, Miss Arabella. This is on your hands. Not mine."

He turned and walked back down the steps, removing his gun from his holster. He stepped into the room, scanning the nine people hunched in the corner. He examined his gun, aimed, and fired.

* * *

The sound of the gun filing the air turned her insides numb. When the voice of 'Friendly Frank' came in through the crawl space she was both relieved and frightened. If the stories were true, they would all escape this alive… as long as they did as he was told.

But that prospect terrified her. If what he wanted was her…

"I got eight more bodies down here!" he called, voice an angry bark. She frowned. Eight… there were ten others in the house…

Still, she came out of the crawl space and hurried down the stairs on shaky legs, tears coming down her cheeks.

"I didn't wan' waste so many bullets…"

She heard him voice as she came around the corner.

"Wait!" she cried, and hurried into the room. "Wait!"

He turned slowly, a little smile coming to his face. She looked around for a body but found only nine people huddled in the corner. She looked back to him and a frown rooted into her face. He raised a hand and removed his hat from his head, pressing it to his chest. A leg stuck out and she watched him place a boot over the bullet hole in the carpet.

"A necessary casualty," he smiled. After a disbelieving parting of her lips he took a step toward her. He continued with a slow, meandering saunter, hat still pressed to his chest.

Blue eyes raked over her body, clad in just a light nightgown. Her skin burned red and she looked down at the floor. She began to tremble and he stepped around her. As he circled her he reached out, ghosting his fingers along the white fabric. She smothered a whimper and screwed her eyes shut. Muscles tightening, she waited. He came back around her, stopping just within arm's reach, and bent forward an inch.

"I've been missin' you," he said softly. He stepped forward, eyebrows lifting upward. He almost looked shy as he looked down at her, a sheepish smile on his lips. "You been thinkin' on me?"

Her eyes flickered upward as she shook her head. She could not hold his gaze.

"Liar," he said softly and then spoke to the members of his posse still in the room. "She been soakin' herself on me."

The sound of their laughter filled the room.

"You-you leave her be!" Christopher called and Friendly Frank's head jerked to the side.

"Silence!" he barked and Christopher flinched, wrapping an arm more tightly around his wife, wrists still bound before him. He turned back to her and spoke softly. "I'm sorry about that, darlin'."

He reached up and gently dabbed at her scalp. He brought his hand back and she looked up to find blood on his fingers. He looked back over his shoulder at the youth that had attacked her, a vicious scowl on his face. He turned back and once again spoke softly.

"You want me to shoot 'em for that?"

She looked up in surprise, eyes darting over to the suddenly terrified youth. She shook her head rapidly.

"No?" he asked. She continued to shake her head and he looked back over his shoulder. "You best thank the lady, Billy."

"Th-thank you, Miss," he said, tipping his hat with a shaky hand.

"Now, pretty thing," he murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I reckon you got yourself a room up there. Why don't you take me up there and no one's got to get hurt."

She looked down, entire body trembling.

"Hm?" he asked quietly, stepping closer again and taking hold of her hands. His hands were large and warm, course, rough. "You like that idea?"

She shook her head, a tear dribbling down her cheek. He turned her face up with a finger to her chin.

"No?" he asked her. His blue eyes moved rapidly over her face. He took the last step forward, her neck arched drastically, and he looked down at her, lips close hers. "I'll be nice 'n gentle with you, sweetheart."

The backs of his fingers, warm and course, trailed over her damp cheek.

"Stop!" Christopher called again and Frank's face jerked to the side again. He reached for his gun again, lifting it in the air and Arabella reached forward, grabbing the outlaw by the arms. He looked back to her, gun half raised.

"Please!" she cried. "Don't hurt him!"

"I won't hurt 'em," he replied tenderly. He holstered the gun again and took her hand. He whispered to her, "Let's go somewhere quiet."

He stepped past her, poised to lead her after him, but she halted, stomach in knots.

"Please, sir," she began he turned back, giving her hand a gentle tug.

"Be a good girl now," he scolded.

"Let her go."

Both looked up toward the far entrance of the room and she cried out. He jerked on her arm hard, pulling her in front of him. Her back slammed into his chest and his arm wrapped around her middle. She squirmed but he brought his other hand to her neck, holding her still.

"You let Miss Arabella go now," Cornelius said, a proud ex-slave that was more like a family member than a ranch hand.

"Nah, I don't think so," he answered. Cornelius held the shotgun in his hand and moved to stand before his family. The other outlaws stood dumbly, none of them with drawn guns. Frank scanned the room, holding her face close to his. Once more, the short stubble on his face scraped against hers.

"Boys, go," he said, jerking his head and they all backed out of the room. He looked Cornelius in the eye. "We got what we came for…" his face turned into hers, nose pressed to her temple, breathing in deeply. "…mostly."

He backed out of the house with her, toward the awaiting horses tied up outside.

"Cattle's good!" someone called. Another voice called out in Spanish. Cornelius followed close behind, gun primed on them. He walked them around the other side of the horse, shielding them from Cornelius and his shotgun.

"If I could get you up on my horse without getting' either of us shot, you'd be comin' with me right now," he spoke directly into her ear. She shuddered, another tear rolling down her cheek. The hand on her neck when to her chin and he turned her face towards his. "The west aint so big darlin'. We'll see each other again."

His eyes moved down to her lips and once again, she found herself at the mercy of an outlaw's kiss.


	3. 3

3

A week and a half after the attack on the ranch, through scorching heat and with unbearable fear, Arabella arrived at Alliston with Christopher and what cattle they had left. The dangerous outlaw, inexplicably, had left half.

"One fat calf left," Christopher had smiled sheepishly the day after. He had done well trying to soothe her massive guilt. That was what most bothered young Arabella. Not that this friendly frank seemed to have some infatuation with her. It was not that she had come so very close to being raped in her upstairs bedroom or the promise he made that they would meet again. It was that because he had met her on that train that her family had been robbed. Those little children could have been hurt. Cornelius had to risk his life to save her.

Christopher had promised her it was not her fault. It was no one's fault but men who decided the law did not matter. Men who thought they could do as they pleased.

Then, on a cool night during which Arabella could not find a wink of sleep, she crept downstairs to have a glass of milk. Lucile was up with her husband in the living area, whispering before a tiny fire.

He'll come back if she's here.  
He came because of her.  
The children, Topher, the children.

Arabella had closed her eyes and slowly sank herself down on a step. Her face praised against the hard wood of the railing.

I'll bring her with me to sell the cows. I'll get her to California. It'll be safer for everyone.

She walked back upstairs and sat on her bed, staring out the window the rest of the night, wondering where out there friendly Frank might be. The next day Christopher told her they were going to Sante Fe to sell the cows and see if Thad had sent a reply to their wire.

She put up no argument. She was relieved in a way to be away from the house. The sooner she got to California and into Thad's arm the safer she would be. It killed her knowing she had placed kind people she had come to love as family at risk.

She looked out into the desert as they rattled on toward Allistown all the while wondering where Friendly Frank might be and what he might be planning. For the past week and a half she had thought of little else. Her fantasies and wondering of her life in California with Thaddeus took a back seat to her musings on the frightening outlaw.

Sweaty palms and labored breathing had been what she awoke too when she finally did sleep. Blue eyes haunted her. His southern drawl bounced around her head day and night.

The west aint so big darlin'. We'll see each other again.

She looked out at the vastness of the barren stretch surrounding her and could not understand how such words could be true. Even so, she believed them. She had this sense of foreboding surrounding her. Christopher was right, the longer she was in the west, the more likely it was he would get what he wanted.

"I fail to understand it," she mused as they stopped before the saloon Christopher had chosen to spend the night at. "There are numerous women in the west."

Christopher stared at her. He contemplated whether or not he should be honest.

"Men like that want what they shouldn't have," he said, deciding on honesty. "You're a beautiful young woman far beyond his reach. Were we back east… a woman like you would never even glance in his direction. Here… he has the power to change that. There are no rules here."

The door was opened and she stared out onto the boarded walkway before the saloon. She wanted to know where he was from. The south was so big. It was not enough to know simply that. She sighed and got up on bent knees. She reached out and gave her hand to the driver.

She squinted into the blowing sand but her survey of the land was cut short. She blinked rapidly as dirt was forced into her eyes and she blocked her face from the punishing desert. How men like Friendly Frank could spend their days in it she had no idea.

"Come this way, Arabella," Christopher pushed her gently with a hand to her lower back. She fought the push and looked around the tiny desert outpost. She almost expected to find him lounging against a nearby post, flashing that smile of his at her.

"Mornin' Darlin'," she could hear his drawl. Watched as his dusty hands rose to give her a polite tip of the cap. Icy blue eyes gazing back with amusement and obsession. But it was a man she did not know lounging against the nearby post, spitting a black blob of filth onto the dirty boards beneath him. She looked away in disgust and pushed on into the saloon with Christopher.

"We might be able to get to Molestown by sun fall if we leave by noon," he suggested over their meager lunch and some hot, stale beer. She grimaced as she swallowed the bitter drink from the dirty mug. "If you feel up to it."

She nodded and placed the cup down.

"I do," she answered simply. She did not feel any real need to remain at this little, dirty town any longer than was necessary.

"Good," he smiled and brought his fork to his lips. "How are you feeling?"

"Hmm?" she asked. She had been thinking about the way his hands had felt on her face. I'll be nice'n gentle with you, sweetheart.

"Are you well?" he asked again.

"Oh, yes I am. Just hot and tired."

"We can stay here if you want," he added, face awash with concern and understanding.

"No. I'll be hot and tired whether I am here or on the road. Like you said, the faster we get to Sante Fe the faster I get to California and the faster I get away from all of you."

He looked pain.

"Arabella…"

"I know," she smiled at him. She reached out to touch his hand. "I would never forgive myself if I ever caused any of you harm. If I am here you are all in danger. I understand that."

A smile of thanks came to his lips.

They set off just before noon but a broken coach wheel sidelined them. Miles from any documented down the coach trembled and jerked. Arabella grabbed the top of her head, pressing the hat she had borrowed from Lucille to her head.

As they piled out of the coach, the driver cursed loudly, shotgun in his hands as he jumped down from the bench. Arabella looked around in concern. They were so out in the open but there did not appear to be anyone for miles.

"What do we do?" she asked, voice rising with anxiety.

"We need a bolt," Jeremiah said. "We isn't goin' nowhere without it."

Christopher nodded grimly, squinting out into the desert. They made the decision to walk to the closest little town. It was only a mile and half according to Jeremiah. He knew the area better than anyone, but it felt like much, much further. By the time they arrived her dress was soaked with sweat, her hair was damp, and lips chapped.

I wish he could see me now, she mused darkly, climbing into the smaller, dirtier saloon with heavy breaths. He certainly wouldn't want me anymore.

The rooms they got were small and dirty. Arabella tried to tell herself it would all be worth it in the end. This was for Thaddeus. It still was one of the hardest thing the pampered young woman had ever experienced in her short life.

They would have been in town only a day and a half had they not arrived back at the coach to find it ransacked, additional parts ripped from it by scavengers. By the time they left the little pit, they had been there an additional three days. Arabella remained in her room, as ordered by Christopher, the entire time. Friendly Frank could be anywhere. They could not risk word getting to him that a pretty young aristocratic Yankee was sheltering in such a little, vulnerable town.

In total, between leaving in Alliston and arriving at Moleston, a trip that was supposed to take half a day, four and a half days passed. When they arrived at the western town, Arabella just wanted to sleep. She got into her room, the cleanest building she had seen since arriving in the west, save the Haverish house of course, and immediately passed out on the lumpy bed.

It was the best sleep she had gotten in weeks. She did not even awake until the next day, just past ten. She managed to procure a bath, something she spent a lot of money on. The outlaw had not managed to take the money she had in her skirt pockets. She had to spend nearly half of all she had left on half a tub of murky water.

But the job got done and when her clean dress was brought back to her, the only one she was left with after the train attack, and she put on the almost pristine pale blue dress, she felt more like the girl she was before arriving in this wretched place.

She went down to eat with Christopher and Jeremiah feeling refreshed and almost happy. A smile was actually on her lips as she settled at the table and greeted the two exhausted men. They had clearly not slept as well as she had the night before.

"Is California like this?" she asked as she pulled apart some stale bread. For a woman used to only the best food, the best rooms, and the most refined company, she had done a remarkable job acclimating to her new surroundings. If she could have expected this thinking it would be permanent could not be known.

"California is more settled," Christopher assured her. "Where Thaddeus is, it's built up. More like the east I think. But… very different still."

She contemplated this as she looked at the bread. She took it and knocked it against the table. One might think it was a rock she had banged against the wood.

"Dip it in the drink," Jeremiah said, tapping her wooden cup. She frowned and looked at the hot beer. That was something she had not adjusted to well. She would kill for a nice glass of wine, a chute of champagne, even a cool drink of water from a clean Rhode Island stream. Her stomach growled and she dipped the bread in the liquid. She had to wait a bit, but when she finally did bring the food to her lips, it was eatable.

She had her fingers in the cup when the gun shot rang through the air. Her hand jerked and it the cup went flying to the floor, warm, stale beer spilling across the floor. The sound of the cup clattering was smothered by the cries of the rest of those present.

Mostly everyone within was on the high end of society. Though a small town, it was a favorite for those wealthy patrons passing through the wasteland to the civilization that rested in California. A gun shot was an unwelcome and surprising sound for those present. But with all the goods that these people possessed it should have been no wonder that such a place could be robbed.

The saloon doors swung open and she turned her head. Her heart erupted in her chest and her lips parted.

"Oh no," she whispered, knees trembling.

"Everyone, calm down," Friendly Frank said to the saloon, holding his empty hands up. Men piled in behind him, ten in total, all with guns in their hands. "This won't take but a minute."

The men began pushing others bag, grabbing guns from the hips of those that were armed. Once done, the taking of wallets, purses, and jewels commenced.

"How you doin' today, darlin', good?"

Arabella took the chance to lift her face. His tone was neutral, she did not think it was directed towards her. She found Friendly Frank walking around the circle of patrons, smiling at them and tipping his hat politely. He had not yet seen her and she found herself almost annoyed. He stopped at a young woman, a few years older than Arabella, and took her hand. He gave it a little kiss, winked, and told her not to be frightened. She did not understand the anger in her chest. Still terrified, she was annoyed another woman might take her mantel. It was oddly flattering, if unwelcome, being the target of a man's obsession. Maybe she was simply a convenience and had never planned on trying to find her again after all.

The annoyance quickly passed and was once more replaced with unending fear. He moved passed the young woman with no further interest, scanning the room with sharp eyes. She lowered her face again.

Bile rose in her throat when a pair of dirty boots stopped before her. The hot beer was churning in her stomach, the stale bread sitting there like a rock. She felt hands on her and she looked up, but was grateful it was another man, blocking her from Frank's view.

He reached for the broach on over her heart and she fought the urge to resist. She needed to keep from drawing attention to herself if she was going to escape this man a third time. She looked over at Christopher and saw his head angled toward. His eyes were on hers. There was a warning and a plea in his eyes, coupled with unending concern. She gave a single nod and put her head back down. If he recognized either of them there was no telling what might happen.

She heard a scuffle and glanced upward. A man in a neat and clean back suit was struggling with a filthy man. A black hat fell from his slick gray hair. His face was an unhealthy shade of red, cheeks puffed out. It would have been comical if it was not so serious. He was thrown down on the ground and Friendly Frank stepped up, hand on his holstered gun. Her heart beat painfully. The bile rose further.

"Alright, sir, very gallant, now hand it over," he said, standing over him. He rolled back on his heels when there was a long stretch of silent. The gentleman on the ground blustered, his wife clawing at his arm, sputtering out her pleas. They went by unheeded.

"I will not!" he called out. "You-you-you beast!"

She could see only his back, but she saw Frank's shoulders turn rigid.

"Now, sir I've been nothin' if not a perfect gentleman. All I want is that nice gold watch o' yours."

He reached for something and something was tossed to the man on the ground.

"Here, take mine, I don't need it anymore."

"You will not intimidate me, scoundrel!" he continued to bluster, face now nearly purple.

The gun was pulled from the holster and her cry left her lips before she ever realized she was on her feet. His head turned to the side but his body did not move an inch. The gun remained raised, but the trigger never pulled. Her heart pounded so hard in her throat she believed it would come out with the stale bread and the warm beer if she was to vomit all over the floor as she wanted to. Christopher's hand closed around her wrist, trying to tug her back to the ground but she refused to budge. Though her brain was blank, she knew it was too late for that.

Slowly, after he seemed to process the order to stop that had left her in a choked cry, he turned his head further, looking over his shoulder.

Blue eyes landed on hers, the lift of his lips slow but deliberate.

"You followin' me?" he asked. The voice that made its way to her ears was light and teasing, but it turned her stomach and she felt her body shake from within. She swallowed hard and looked around at the shocked faces of the other patrons. The man with the purple face had his wide, frightened eyes on hers, filled with thanks. It gave her a boost of courage and she looked back to Frank as he turned slowly. He jerked his head to the crowed behind him and grunted, "Jack."

A man moved from the line of three guarding the door. He took Frank's place, making sure those that might fight back were watched closely.

Frank walked toward her slowly, that little saunter swaying his gate. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his sandy hair. He smoothed it back, the sweat on his forehead helping keep it pressed away from his weathered face. For a fleeting moment it occurred to her she had no idea how old he was. She would not have been shocked to learn he was either twenty or forty.

"Fancy findin' you here," he mused with an almost shy smile. His blue eyes twinkled at her. "Miss me? Came out lookin' for me?"

He raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

"I was comin' back for you, darlin' don't you fear a single second. I couldn't forget that pretty face," he cooed. "Had some business to see to, is all."

"Don't kill him," she choked out as he stopped before her. He sighed and looked over his shoulder, a regretful frown turning his sun baked face downward.

"Aw, Christ, darlin', I aint got a choice."

"Of course you do," she countered. She felt Christopher's hand tightened around her wrist. He tried to tug her back toward him gently but she fought, turning herself square before the tall outlaw.

"I don't," he said. "That man's got to die now. An this'n will too if he doesn't take his fucking hands off you."

The inflection of his voice had her flinching, eyes screwed shut. Christopher's hand left her on impulse. When her eyes opened she saw him looking down at Christopher with a frightening scowl on his face, murder shining in his eyes.

"Um," she began but fell silent. She only hoped to bring his attention away from Christopher. She had little idea what she might say to do that. Her voice was enough. He looked back at her, face once more neutral. His head tilted backward to allow his eyes to more easily move over her body.

"You wore that on the train," he said, flashing a gold tooth.

"You stole all my others," she reminded him. It brought his hand to the shawl still around his neck. He raised it to his nose, breathing in deeply. She fought back a shudder as his eyes turned hot.

"Well, I guess I did," he answered her. "You still got that picture o' your mama?"

She nodded silently. She had it in her pocket. His eyes watched her hand go to it impulsively. She flinched as he raised a hand to her cheek.

"See I aint so bad." His thumb trailed over her cheekbone. "Lord if I know how you stay so clean out here."

"You will not kill him?" she asked. His gaze changed again, a flicker of annoyance within it.

"I got a reputation. If I let some soft Yankee aristocrat tell me no, then everone'll start sayin' no and then, well it's just bad for business, you see. I gotta earn a livin'." He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You see, pretty Arabella," he gripped her chin, turning her face upward. She kept her lips from trembling by biting down hard on her tongue. "I don't take kindly to 'no'."

She swallowed hard.

"If… if you don't kill him… then…" she knew what she wanted to say but could not bring herself to saying it. His lips curved upward even with her speech halted and his eyes flicked across her face, tender amusement coupled with cold calculation.

"You tryin'ta make me an offer, Miss Arabella?"

Now, despite the tight hold her teeth had on her tongue, her lower lip did tremble. He chuckled and his eyebrows lifted. He squinted, face crinkling, and looked over his shoulder at a friend. He looked back at her with a shaking head.

"Let me clear somethin' up for you. No matter how this here ends… you're leavin' here with me," he said. He put some pressure on the thumb and pointer finger that held her chin hostage, turning her head from side to side with a little shake. "Understand?"

"But the level of my complacency depends entirely upon your forthcoming action," she forced the words from her lips with a stronger voice than she could have hoped for. His face was overcome with a wide smile.

"You got book learnin' dontcha?" he asked.

"Some," she answered. He nodded and released her chin. He turned his back to her, glancing down at the man.

"Ladies and gentleman… I got a question for y'all. Now, no one can ever say Friendly Frank Lawson doesn't take care with a lady's sensibilities. I got standards you see? A code one might say. Everyone knows I won't kill a person less they give me cause 'n his man has given cause. But I got a kind heart," he said, placing a hand to his chest. "Would y'all be understandin' that if I give this man a second chance to give me what I have earned…" he looked around pointedly. "that it don't mean I aint a man to be taken seriously. I don't want my kindness to be mistaken as weakness."

He turned his face back to hers and she wrung her sweaty hands in front of her with trembling arms. He smiled softly.

"But I do got weakness for that face," he said softly. He looked back and clapped his hands together. "Thoughts? Concerns? Questions?"

"We uh…" the piano player's voice called weakly. "We uh will talk about your-your-your kindness and… and speak on your- well speak to your… your seriousness… you… that you aren't someone to… to refuse."

Frank had leaned forward as he sputtered, face crumpling with confusion as he tried to make sense of the man's words. Once finished he leaned back with a smile, rolling onto his heels once more. His gaze found hers again.

"Now I'm gon'go ask him again and if he says no, I got no choice. You see?"

She nodded dumbly. He sauntered back over to the man, head tilted.

"Good sir. Please, hand over that there watch," he said. "An' remember… that girl is the reason you still breathin'. She aint gonna save you a second time."

The man looked to her and she parted her lips with a silent plea. His wife cried softly, whispering in his ear as she clutched at his arm. A look of disgust came to his face, but his trembling fingers found the gold watch and he ripped the chain from his suit. He threw it at Frank angrily, but the outlaw caught it with ease. A large smile came to his face.

"Wonderful! And not nearly as bloody," he grinned, tucking the watch in his pocket. He wagged a finger at her. "My many thanks."

He found the rippled fabric on her chest and frowned deeply.

"Someone touch you?" he asked.

"He took my broach," she answered. He looked over toward the man in question.

"Blackjack…" he sighed with a shake of the head. "Come on now, that's my girl."

The man was short with a nasty scar on his cheek and he walked over. He slapped the gold broach into Frank's hand.

"Thank you," he said. The rest of the men finished collecting the remaining items and she looked down at Christopher. "Now, come here, darlin'. Best time we lit on out o' here."

Her feet remained frozen and Christopher got to his feet. She watched Frank's eyes harden and she turned to press her hands to Christopher's chest.

"Don't," she breathed. She shook her head rapidly as he made to protest. "He will kill you. He will. Kill. You." She gave special attention to every word spoken.

"I cannot let him take you."

"He will not kill me. As long as I do as he says," she said and looked over her shoulder at him. He was watching with mild annoyance, but gentle patience in his icy eyes. "If you die… what will happen to Lucille and the children?"

Christopher was pale and looked like he might be sick right there on the floor.

"Do you understand…" he swallowed his disgust. "Do you understand what he intends to do with you?"

"I know," she whispered. She licked her dry lips. Fighting her own nausea. "But he's going to take me anyway." She hugged him and whispered in his ear, "With you alive you can find me."

She lowered herself back to the flat of her feet. She patted his chest.

"Please… be smart about this."

He nodded, face crumpled in agony, lips trembling with anger and shame. He looked down and swallowed down bile. He raised a hand to his lips and closed his eyes.

She turned and looked at Frank. He remained standing in the center of the saloon.

"Come on now," he called, holding out his hand. Her legs threatened to turn to clay as she stepped toward him. He smiled as she placed her gloved hand into his. He looked at it and brought it to his lips. He cocked his head. He murmured, "Don't be scared now."

He looked toward Christopher, gaze hard.

Each step was more difficult than the last and as they passed through the saloon doors to the horses outside her knees buckled. He caught her around the middle, keeping her from the ground. He laughed softly, face pressed to the top of her hair.

"Careful."

She found the boy that had pulled her hair from her head at the ranch and shuddered.

"No fears," Frank chuckled in her ear. "I don't pull hair as hard as he does." His hands closed around her hips and she was put onto his horses with ease. He swung up behind her, gazing out down the road.

"You are the prettiest thing I ever did steal," he told her. He looked down at her, face close to hers. She looked down, eyes closed, tears leaking down her cheeks. "We're gonna have fun together, you and I."

He fisted the reins and turned the horse.

"Now lean back and hold on. We hafta get a move on before any of them get themselves to a town with a sheriff that has a stitch o' courage in 'em."

She nodded and a cry left her lips as he spurred the horse onward. They rode hard into the heat of the desert, body jostling against his, her future looking more grim with each beat of the horse's hooves.  
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	4. 4

They rode hard and they rode fast. Hot sun beat down hard on the ten horses that delivered their eleven passengers more deeply into the unforgiving desert. Her body jostled painfully. Her thighs ached terribly. She would not have been conditioned for such a long, hard ride as it was, but in her effort to remain on the horse, every single unused muscle in her body was flexed tightly. She refused to lean back against her captor for support. She kept her muscles tenses, body upright, hands turning white as she squeezed onto the horn of the saddle. But the journey stretched on and her muscles began to ache and cramp. In protest they refused to hold her any longer. She teetered to the side and an overwhelming sense of dead consumed her. Her stomach plummeted.

Her body began its descent off the horse. Falling off the horse might not kill her, begin trampled by those that followed would. With lightening speed strong arms closed around her, yanking her to the hard body behind her.

"None o' that now."

His arms remained around her the rest of the journey and she leaned against him. Her heart pounded in her throat. She replayed it over and over again. She could see her body being trampled in her head. Heard the sound of her skull being crushed under the force of the powerful hooves. She sank more deeply against him and his arm tightened around her middle, using one hand to grip the reins.

Luckily, they rode straight. There were little to no turns, no backtracking, no unnecessary displays of equestrian skill. Simply hard riding in the hot desert sun. They rode the horses this hard for nearly an hour and half before Frank called for a stop. His arm pulled her closer to him as he regained a better grip on the reins.

"Where we headed?" the young man that had pulled her hair asked, turning his horse around to face them.

"Brunswick?" the man called Blackjack asked, the white scar down the side of his face wrinkling as he spoke. He spit tobacco onto the ground with a sickening splat.

"Nah, too close," Frank said, shifting behind her. She looked out around them, taking in the vastness of the desert. It was quite clear that at least in that moment, no one was coming after them. "I want to get to Tularosa."

"Tularosa?" the hair puller asked. Arabella flinched when something was placed to her lips. It was cool and wet and before her brain could really register it she was sucking down the water greedily. It was pulled from her lips before she could have her fill.

"Greedy girl," Frank teased with a chuckle and brought the canteen to his own lips. "Further we get the better. I don't wan'be thinkin' that the door's gon'be broken down all night. We got somethin' a bit more valuable than a gold watch."

He pulled the watch from his pocket and held it out before them, his arms keeping her in a type of cocoon.

"I'm gon' count you as an accomplice for this," he grinned at her.

"I ain't goin all the ways to Tularosa," the young man said. Frank continued to look at the watch as the others began to argue. Her eyes ran over the other nine men and her stomach turned. She leaned back more deeply into Frank. He raised an arm and gave her another sip of water from the canteen.

"Then don't fuckin' go," Blackjack snapped. "He ain't your fuckin' mother."

"Language,"Frank scolded. "There's a proper lady present."

"Yeah 'bout that, Frank, I ain't much keen on hangin'," another man said. He removed a scarf from around his face to spit into the dirt. He left it around his neck and lifted a hat to wipe his brow. His lips parted to reveal a mouth full of rotted teeth.

"You're wanted for three murders," Frank said dismissively and placed the watch back into his coat.

"One a lawman," a yet unnamed man said.

Frank took the canteen back from her. "You good with the water, sweetheart?"

She nodded, but her throat burned for more.

"I'm goin'ta Tularosa," Frank said. "Don't much care who comes with me." He lowered his face to look at hers from the side. "Excludin' you o'course, darlin'."

Her eyes fluttered closed.

"Billy, come with me to Pines," the man that had complained about hanging said. "I'll buy you a girl."

Billy's face lit up.

"I'm headin' to Tularosa," Blackjack said.

"Yeah," the other unnamed man agreed. A group of men, all Spaniards by the look of them, spoke briefly to Frank. His response was in Spanish but he made no effort to use a proper accent. The Spaniards did not seem to mind.

"Best get goin'," Frank said. Those that did not wish to follow said their goodbyes and began riding hard east. She was not sad to see the young hair puller go. The two that seemed familiar with Frank and the three Spaniards remained. Frank looked to her as the others readied themselves. "Ready?"

She nodded silently.

"You shakin'. I ain't gon' hurt'yuh," he said very gently, very softly. Again, she could only nod. Her skin was beginning to turn red and sweat ran down her temples. Her stomach growled with hunger and her mouth was dying for another sip of water. She flinched when his hat was suddenly plopped down on her head. It was warm, a little damp with sweat, but it shielded her from the cruel sun and she accepted it with just a minor adjustment. He added softly, touching her chin with rough fingers, "I told you I'll be gentle."

"I know," she said and the cleared her throat.

"You need'ta stop, just pat my arm," he told her.

She nodded, looking out around them again. She could still see the others riding off. Once again they were riding hard into the desert. She leaned back into him, using his hat to shield he from the sun.

She asked him to stop twice, each time sucking down as much water as he would allow. The sun sucked up her sweat as fast as her body could produce it and her throat burned. She clutched at the canteen each time, tilting her head back to quench her thirst. He pulled it back each time.

"Need to save water out here," he told her kindly, almost reluctantly, each time. "Never know when you're gon' get your next fill."

She would nod in disappointment and prepare herself for the next stretch of the journey. The sun was in the western portion of the sky when they came to stop at a little outpost, but it could not have been too much past midday.

Her eyes found the well first. Her dry lips parted. It looked like it might have been the beginning of a town at one point. The harsh temperatures the desert provided too much for whoever it was that once lived there. Now it was a tiny deserted outpost of three buildings and a well.

The men stopped at hitching posts and jumped down from their horses. Frank hopped down beside her and she gazed toward the well. Hands reached up to help her from the horse but she turned away from him, digging through his saddle bags for the canteen. Her hands closed around it as his hands found her hips. She let out a little cry of surprise as he pulled her off the horse.

Her feet hit the ground but they were not prepared to hold herself up. She fell forward, colliding with the outlaw. He chuckled but there was never any chance she was going to hit the ground. His hold on her was firm and secure. Her grip on the front of his coat was not needed. His hat fell forward, blocking her vision, and she tilted it back with a little huff. His hands tugged her close, their bodies pressed together, and he grinned down at her.

"Y'all right now?" he asked. She nodded and used her grip on his coat to push away from him. His hand snatched the canteen from her as she stepped away. She was about to protest when he raised it up. A gold tooth flashed. "You shouldn't be takin' things that don't belong to you."

He put the canteen beneath her chin and directed her face upward.

"Little red-cheeked but no worse for wear."

"Christ, Frankie," Blackjack mused as he patted his horse's neck. "Girl probably never rode in her life."

"I've ridden," she snapped indignantly, cheeks flushing and angry tears pricked her eyes. She refused to let the spill over her cheeks. She jerked her chin away from Frank and he dropped the arm that held the canteen. "I ride very well." Another man laughed.

"Frank's happy to hear it," he cackled. She glanced over in time to see Blackjack smother a laugh, turning his back to them to begin unsaddling his horse. The water in her eyes then turned to humiliation and she lowered her face. She did not know what it meant, but the sound of the men's laughter told her enough.

"Shut your hole!" Frank snapped angrily. "See to my horse."

One of his hands gripped her elbow and he guided her away from the horse. She looked around the little outpost. She saw no one but the men that had attacked the saloon.

"Sit here," he ordered and turned her to sit against a wall. It afforded a little bit of shade and she sat without a word thought of protest. "Now you ain't gon' try to run are you?" he looked around. "You ain't gon' get far."

She looked around her. She looked to see the group of men lounging around the well, all laughing and smiling. She looked to her left and right and saw only emptiness. She shook her head silently and brought her knees up to her chest.

He turned to walk over to the well. She watched him as he walked, the confident saunter he often displayed momentarily missing from his gate, but he did walk like a man who rode a horse every day. He reached behind him, lifting the back of his coat, and in addition to the two guns he had holstered at his hips, she saw a third tucked into the belt of his pants.

He let it fall as he arrived at the well. Someone said something him and he turned his head to gaze back at her, a smile on his face. She stared back. Her heart pounded. She looked over the group of men, praying that Frank's promises to be gentle meant that she would not be shared either.

He turned back and to converse with his friends. He returned quickly, walking toward her with the canteen. She watched silently as he crouched down before her. He jerked his chin toward her with a smile. "Trade'yuh."

She frowned with confusion. He lifted his eyebrows and darted his blue eyes upward.

"Oh," she mumbled and reached for the hat. She handed it over to him and he gave her the canteen.

"Drink your fill now, darlin'," he gave her the permission as he placed the hat on his head. She raised the canteen to her lips and did just that. Her eyes moved over to the Spaniards as they retook their mounts. His gaze lingered on her face.

"You told me, remember. You said, ah, your 'complacency,'" he raised his eyebrows, as if asking a question. "depended on my… 'forthcomin' action. 'Member?"

She nodded, swallowing knives. He grinned and cocked his head to the side.

"What's complacency mean?"

"Oh, um," she said, quickly moving past her surprise. "To be complacent," her voice was a little soft and she cleared her throat. "To be happy or pleased, content, with your situation, despite or without realizing the dangers or risks involved."

"Hmm," he smiled. His blue eyes moved over her face slowly. His nose had been broken at one point in his life. It sat crookedly on his face. "You complacent then, sweetheart?"

"I suppose," she answered.

"'I suppose,'" he mimicked and slapped his knees. He got up with a groan and extended his hand. She stared at it a moment and then gave him her own. He pulled her to her feet and turned, guiding her behind him.

"Jack," he called to the one not called Blackjack. She frowned. "She's complacent."

He chuckled and shook his head before turning his back to go through a saddlebag.

He lead her toward one of the buildings and called over his shoulder. "Get the horses watered and rested. Need' get gone before long if we want to get to Tularosa before nightfall."

Her foot reached the middle step and she looked toward the men, then the little nestle of buildings. This wasn't Tularosa?

He opened the door and she pulled to a stop. He glanced over his shoulder.

"None o' that, now," he scolded. He gave a little tug of her hand. "Come on."

She refused and he turned; he was annoyed now. He looked down at her, eyes glancing briefly toward his friends. When he spoke, his voice was serious but hushed.

"Now I didn't kill that Yankee today 'cause o' you," he told her. "And I didn't kill that man there with you. The ranch owner." He touched his chest. "And I wanted to. I really did. Both of 'em. But I didn't." His eyes danced over her face. "We all have to make sacrifices."

"I don't want to," she whispered. Her lip trembled and tears came to her eyes.

"It ain't nothin' you won't like," he answered tenderly, touching her cheek. "You fooled with a man before?"

She shook her head.

"No? Nothin'?" She gave another little shake, eyes looking toward his boots.

"I... I've kissed my fiancé," she whispered. She closed her eyes and tried to picture his face now. His face seemed lost to her.

"Fiancé, huh?" he grunted. "You best not be thinin' on him."

He placed a finger beneath her chin and forced her face back up. Her eyes opened, silent tears stinging her burned cheeks.

"You hear? No more thinkin' on him," he ordered."

His thumb stroked her chin.

"Come on, let's go," he murmured and turned back. This time her feet carried her behind him into the house. The house was clean but had very little within it. It was basic if dusty.

"Is this your home?" she asked him, voice hoarse. He chuckled softly as he grabbed the handle of a shut door.

"Haven't had one o' those in some time now, darlin'," he answered. He stepped to the side and removed his hat, motioning into the room with it. He brushed his thick hair back away from his face. She looked inside the room, swallowed, and obeyed.

Her eyes found the bed first. Her body began to tremble and the door shut softly behind her.

She wondered if she should fight. It would be more painful. There would be more trauma. But could she ever face Thaddeus again if she allowed him to do this to her? If she simply lie down and let him spread her legs? Would Thaddeus ever understand? She turned around and took a few steps away from the softly smiling outlaw. His eyes landed on the bed, then back on her. She would much rather have him with that smile on his face than the look of furry in his eyes when Christopher had called out at the ranch.

He tossed his hat onto a dresser to his left and played with her shawl around his neck.

"Come here an' give me a kiss, darlin'," he said, voice low. His tongue trailed along his bottom lip and he waited. She looked back at the bed and a breath had her shoulders shuddering.

"I understand," he said and took a step toward her. "You're scared. I get it. I bet you been lied to. They said it hurt, did they? Hmm? Try an' scare the pretty rich girl away from bed play. It aint like that."

He stopped in front of her. He put his hands on the side of her shoulders and gave a small squeeze of comfort. His hand cupped the side of her neck. He bent down to place his lips to hers. His lips parted and her tongue pressed to hers. It was like no kiss she had ever received before. It was not the chaste kiss she had received from Thad as he left, nor the bruising pressing of the lips she had received from the outlaw in question.

"Sweeter than a Georgia peach," he murmured as he broke the kiss. He held her chin hostage once more.

His tongue moved along his lower lip again. Her body quivered from within. Her knees buckled when his hands found the belt around her middle.

"Any other man would be inside o' you already," he whispered to her. Her eyes fluttered closed. "You'd have those pretty drawers ripped open. Skirts lifted."

He pulled at the little flower patch that covered the knot. She flinched and kept her eyes closed.

"Face down on the bed," he continued. His voice was thick and low. "With his boys lined up for a turn."

The last sentence had a fat tear fall down a pink cheek.

"I'm gon' be gentle with you," he continued, kissing away the tear with a soft brush of his lips. His fingers plucked at the knotted fabric. "And aint no one else goin' touch you."

He pulled the fabric lose and let it drop. With it untied he reached out and pushed the parted, upper portion of her dress to the side. The frill of her white shirt ruffled as he pushed the dress over her shoulders. The dress fell down around her and she was left in her shirt and drawers.

"I've fooled with plenty o' women. Never wanted to undress one so bad," he told her. "Just don't have the time."

She felt his fingers slip downward. They found the hole in her drawers and pressed gently to her inner thigh. He pressed his lips to hers again. As his fingers found her most private area, his tongue entered her mouth. He pulled back to grin sheepishly at her.

"I'm a bit nervous," he said. "I never had a virgin before."

He looked at her a moment or so more and then jerked his head.

"On the bed," he ordered.

"I don't want it to happen like this," she breathed. His eyes flashed at the rejection.

"Get on the bed or bend over that dresser. Your choice."

Her lower lip trembled and she blinked rapidly.

"Alright then," he sighed and reached out. He seized her by the elbow and brought her over to the dresser. He bent her over with ease, and though she hit the dresser with a soft thud, she did not fight back. She trembled and gripped the dresser so hard her knuckles were white. Her face scrunched up and she pressed her face into his coat.

"Shh," he comforted her, placing a hand to the back of her neck, pressing her harder into the dresser. "I aint gon' hurt you. I aint mad."

He pressed a hand to her hip and repositioned her. She had never felt so vulnerable before in her life.

"Just goin'ta take what's mine," he breathed. He gripped her hips and squeezed. He pressed against her and she squeezed her eyes shut, reading herself for the violation. Once more, she tried to summon the image of Thad's face in her head, and discovered she could not.

His hands pulsed on her hips and he leaned down over her, blanketing her body with his. His lips pressed to her ear and he asked gruffly, "What do you mean, 'like this'?"

"I'm hungry. I'm thirsty," she quivered. She tilted her face to his. "I'm sore. My head hurts. I'm tired."

He pulled back slightly to better look at her. She swallowed hard.

She whispered, "I'm so very frightened."

"You're gon' be scared first time no matter what," he explained softly. "Best just get it over with."

"Can we not go somewhere we can stay? Somewhere I can feel safe?" she pleaded.

"You said you'd be complacent if I didn't kill that man," he reminded her.

"Complacency is not the same as enthusiasm. I am not enthusiastic, but nor am I fighting you now," she gave him her own reminder.

"No," he murmured, "Enthusiasm. That's just some fancy word for excited, yeah?"

His hand touched her hair, petting it gently.

"How do I know you aint lyin' to me?" he asked softly.

"I promise," she whispered. "I will be receptive to your attentions and I will… participate."

She closed her eyes. That was what he wanted. Clearly his hesitation proved that much. He straightened and ran his hands from her rib cage to her hips, pulling her against his erection. He growled. She pressed her face into his coat and waited.

"I just want to feel safe," she whispered when he lingered there. His hands moved over her corset, feeling the laces beneath his fingers. He pulled back abruptly.

"Stand up," he muttered. She did so but her body trembled. She turned to face him and he looked down at her. He gripped her chin, turning her face upward and he spoke close to her. He stepped so close to her, she almost had to look straight up to meet his gaze. "I get you somewhere safe. Somewhere secure, and you'll … participate?"

He touched her cheek. She nodded.

"I promise."

His eyes trailed over her scantily clad form. There was lingering doubt in his gaze. Hot desire burning within. This man was going to have her. She knew there was no way to avoid it. It was merely a matter of when and how.

She got up onto the tips of her toes. Her hands, still trembling, touched his shoulders. His muscles were powerful and tight beneath the vest and shirt. She felt them flex as her hands applied slight pressure. She moved her hands to his neck. His skin was hot beneath her hand. Cords of muscle tightened beneath her touch. She pulled him downward. A shaky breath came from her lips and she fluttered her eyes closed. She pressed her mouth to his, parting her lips and kissing him the best way she knew how. He let her drive the kiss, but guided her along, gently coaxing her with a press of the tongue, an added brush of the lips. The kiss ended and her lips tingled. The feel of his stubble still scratched her skin. A hum of pleasure rumbled in his throat; a little lift curved his lips into a smile.

"I like that better," he murmured.

"My parents always told me that southern men had a great respect for a woman's virtue," she said. His eyes flashed again, readying himself for another rejection, and she hurried her speech. "Her comfort and safety. I would feel…"

She looked around the nearly empty room, at the dirty bed.

"I know that I am here at your mercy… but I would feel I was nothing but a whore," she whispered.

He looked around, eyes scanning the room thoughtfully.

"I don't wan' treat you like a whore," he said with tenderness a man like him should not possess. "No place is gonna be one o' your fancy mansions," he added. The volume of his voice matched hers. His knuckles trailed over a wet, sunburned cheek gingerly.

"I understand that."

He cupped her cheek, his thumb pressing to her bottom lip. The gentle strokes of the calloused thumbs turned to measured taps.

"My patience is wearin' thin," his voice was hushed. "I don't wanna hurt you, but I will have you." His voice was strung tight with tension. "The ranch… I should have had you then." His eyebrows lifted. Her eyes blinked and she offered a little nod. "I said at the saloon. I don't take kindly to 'no'."

"It is not a 'no'," she said urgently. "Just a short reprieve." His lips turned upward slowly. She clarified, "A 'not yet.'"

"No more beggin'," he told her. "No askin' me to stop. No sayin' no. Alright?"

"I promise."

He lowered his hand from her face and stepped back.

"Get dressed."

She scrambled to put on her dress before he could change his mind. She felt his eyes on her the entire the time. Once finished she tied the belt tightly and looked to him. He motioned for the door and she walked outside on legs as weak as hot noodles.

They stepped back out into the hot sun and she squinted. The sun assaulted her eyes and she raised a hand. She almost stumbled on the last step, but a strong hand caught her by the arm.

"You're a clumsy one," he mused neutrally. He stepped past her once they were on the hard dirt ground and began walking toward the horses. "Come on then!" he shouted. "I want to be in Tularosa. Right fuckin' now."

She flinched at the bite in his voice and dread slowly began seeping from her stomach into her limbs. Whether she liked it or not out here he was her only friend. His anger did not sit well with her. The two men that had stayed with them looked up at each other, seated on a stoop, eating with wooden spoons from dirty tins. They looked at her and she looked down. As they rose she hurried over to stand closer to Frank at his horse.

He sensed her presence and turned his head. He looked her over once and then resumed the rummaging in his saddle bags. She stepped closer, moving around him so she could not be seen by the other men.

"They won't hurt you," he told her, buckling the saddlebag. "Even if I wasn't here, they wouldn't. Not that type."

She nodded and watched them curiously as they moved to their horses.

"You all ready?" he asked. "Have to relieve yourself or anything?"

She shook her head, cheeks reddening and he lifted her up onto the horse. He swung up behind her and grabbed the reins. She watched his hands flex around the leather, knuckles pulsing white.

"My pa always told me Yankees couldn't be trusted. They were all liars, he always did say. I never believed him. I hope you don't give me cause to think otherwise."

"You have my word," she assured him. He grunted and pulled gently on the reins.

"What did you mean?" she asked. The other two men were readying themselves. She turned her head to look at Frank. "When you said I was lied to?"

"What's your understandin'? Of a man and woman comin' together? Be honest now."

Her blush now extended down her neck.

"I know that it is something a man takes great pleasure in and that if the man takes care, he can greatly limit a woman's discomfort."

He chuckled and slowly guided the horse backward. He had it turned and righted before he spoke again.

"You ever wonder why so many women take part? If that's all they get?" he asked. She did not answer him. "You gon' enjoy it just as much as me. I promise you that."

She had a hard time believing that was true.

"You'll see I'm right and you're goin'ta thank me kindly afterward."

She raised her hand to block the sun from her eyes. His hat was placed back onto her head.

"You keep your promise and I'll keep mine," he added. She readjusted his hat on her head.

"I will," she vowed. He leaned to his side and examined the side of her face. She turned her head to meet his eyes. He smile and spit into the palm of his hand. She frowned when he held it out to her. She realized what he wanted and raised her hand, but before she could complete the disgusting shake he caught her wrist. Without a word he brought her hand to her mouth. She hesitated and then pushed a little dot of saliva onto her palm. He slapped his hand onto hers. She kept the grimace from her face.

"Alright now, sweetheart, lean back on me now," he ordered, taking his hand from hers. She settled back into him; her eyes looked off into the distance thoughtfully. He spoke to his friends. "We don't stop until we get to Tularosa. Understood?"

They gave their assent. He dug his heels into the horse and they once more set off into the punishing desert.

They slowed as they neared Tularosa to save the horses. Francis took his flask from his back right saddleback as they hit the sign that informed them they were only four miles away. Arabella's head rolled from side to side on his chest. He looked down as they approached. Her face was tilted upward, lips parted, eyes closed. The sun was just about to kiss the horizon. Blackjack pulled his horse up beside him as they continued to walk down the road.

"Weren't in there long with her," he observed. Francis looked at the setting sun.

"Changed my mind," he answered. "I could have. She wasn't fightin' just…"

He looked down at her face.

"I'll have her."

"What happens when you're done? Drop her off somewhere?"

He looked down at her. He had removed his hat from her head when he had offered her the few sips of the whiskey from his flask. The sun had been low by then. Her muscles had begun to cramp. The closer they got to their destination the more anxious she became. She had accepted the first sip, coughed nearly half of it out into the greedy desert sand, and then taken far more than she should have. Within a quarter hour she was asleep on his chest.

"Don't know yet."

Blackjack nodded and spurred his horse on. He trotted ahead but stayed within sight. Francis kept the horse to a walk. He did not want to wake her up.

He had been foolish to try and take her Miguel's the outpost. He had done nothing but frighten her. Even before she told him so, he knew she was a virgin. And like a fool he tried to take her like he'd take some saloon girl. Fast, short, in an old, dirty room, on an old, dirty bed. The girl in his arms was no saloon girl. She was no whore. To think she would just lie down and spread those pretty legs of hers…

He closed his eyes; he trusted his horse to take them straight. He would bring her somewhere clean, take his time with her, and she'd open for him like a flower. He replayed the kiss she had given him over and over again in his head. Twenty three year old Anderson Francis Lawson, saying his final prayers as cannon balls ripped apart the soft bodies of his friends marching beside him, could never have imagined he'd have himself a pretty, rich Yankee girl.

All that blood. The mounds of dead bodies. Every single man he called friend dead. His home burned to the ground.

She was owed to him, goddammit.

A little sigh left her and she turned her face. Her porcelain skin was turned pink. Those big doe eyes were gently pressed shut. Her plump pink lips open in a little 'O'.

Blackjack and John got to Tularosa five or so minutes before him, but they waited at the stables for him, lounging against a hitching post. Blackjack sucked on his pipe while John wound his watch.

"Wake up now, darlin'," he said, gently rousing her. She moaned in protest, forehead crinkling. He swung down off the horse and lowered her down. She stood on her feet but leaned against him, face pressed to his chest.

"Yankees are so fuckin' soft," Blackjack said. He shook his head and spit into the dirt. "Can't believe those fuckers won."

"I met plenty a southern belle that couldn't a handled the day she just had," John replied.

He tried to lift her up and she straightened, pressing her face into her hands. He grabbed his saddlebags, slinging them over his shoulders.

"Come on, now," he urged but she shook her head. He looked to John and Blackjack. "You stayin' a minute?"

He nodded and he dropped the saddlebags.

"Let's go, darlin'," he said and scooped her legs out from under her. He carried her across the dry street, and into the Buck Horn Saloon. He answered a few greetings but walked up to the room he kept reserved for himself. It was the closest thing he had to a home since his last was put to the torch. She lifted her head to look around. Her hands tightened on his shoulders. He considered thanking her. He'd much rather have her in his own bed than at that old outpost.

He opened the door and slipped inside. He put her on the bed in the darkness and then lit the gas lamp on the table. She was seated up, eyes on him.

"Hungry?"

She shook her head. Nerves.

He crouched down before her.

"We're in the middle of the desert. You get out there, you'll die. Understand?" he asked. "Speak to me, darlin'."

"I understand." Her voice was soft.

"Some o' the men here," he smiled and reached up to thread his fingers into her damp, ruffled hair. "Well, they aint as gentlemanly in their nature as me."

"I believe you," she answered.

"So no climbin' out any windows, no creepin' down the stairs," he cautioned. "You'll be prayin' it's me that finds you."

This time she only nodded and he got back to his feet. His hands reached out and seized his arms in alarm.

"You will not be gone long?" she asked.

"You're safe in here," he said.

"I would prefer you not go," she answered.

"Oh?" he quirked an eyebrow. "I was goin'ta wait till tomorrow but…"

He sat down on the edge of the bed. Her eyes widened.

"If you're so… enthusiastic," he grinned and pointed a finger at her. "Your book learnin' is wearin' off on me."

He gripped the back of her head, digging his fingers into her hair. It reminded him the oak tree he would spend hours playing on as a boy. When he returned home, he discovered it had been chopped down by Yankee soldiers. Her pretty pink face was awash with panic. It did nothing to temper his desire.

"Kiss me," he murmured and bent his head toward her. She accepted his kiss and desire coursed through him. His tongue pressed to hers. She tasted heavenly. He broke the kiss off and looked at her in the dim light. "Tired?" she nodded. "Not hungry?" she shook her head. He looked at her lips.

He slapped his knees with a loud groan and got up to leave.

"Go to sleep."

"I am sorry?" she asked and he paused at the door.

"Darlin', you need'ta stop givin' me reasons to lift your skirts right now," he told her. "'Cause I am awful close to sayin' goddamn to my bags and crawlin' into bed with you. I'm givin' you one more day."

She pressed her lips together. Her neck flexed as she swallowed.

"I'm gon' lock this door. And you're gon' stay put," he said. "I stole you right and proper. You're mine now. Y'Understand?"

She nodded slowly. Perhaps it was the whiskey, but the meaning of the look in her eyes eluded him.

"Sweet dreams now," he told her. He grinned. "Dream o' me. I'll be dreamin' o' you."

She continued to nod and he closed the door tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments!


	5. 5

 5

-

She woke up to a feeling of gross disorientation. The sky outside was darkening. The first beams of moonlight had begun to shine in through the broken slats of the wooden blinds. She stared up at the sky with squinted eyes, a grimace on her pink face.

She was exhausted, yet as she tried to press her face back into the pillow and fall back into blissful nothingness, she found her brain was fully rested. She rolled onto her back and looked out the window. Her nose crinkled and she turned her head. The lamp was off. The room was dark. A plate rested on the nightstand to her left, crumbs of whatever meal had rested their previously all that remained. She stared at the crumbs and her stomach made an audible cry for sustenance. Her lips were dry and chapped. She swallowed and her throat was scratchy.

Hunger finally set in and she flung off the covers. She had crawled into bed that night fully dressed. She was dreadfully afraid that Frank might return, drunk and with his mind changed. Her head began to ache and she pressed her feet to the ground. Her hands smoothed out the wrinkled fabric of her dirtying dress as she made her way to the door.

Her ear pressed to the wood, rough and warm, and the sound of laughter, music, and singing made its way through the door. She bit her lip and pushed herself away with the tops of her fingers. That was when she spotted the bowl of water on the night stand . Next, she spotted the little closet door, a half door really. She opened it to find his saddle bags resting within.

She glanced to the water and found it unsuitable to drink. Though her throat screamed for something wet, she refused to put it into her mouth. She instead dipped her hands within and splashed her already flushing face. The night offered a short reprieve from the blistering sun, but it was far from the cold she had been promised the desert could bring.

She would have given almost anything for a mirror. Her cheeks burned as the water touched her pink skin. Little grains of sand were scrubbed into the light burn. Had it not been for his hat, she might have found her skin peeling from her face instead of only a little discomfort.

She wet the back of her neck with a damp hand. The water was far from cold. It was hardly even cooler than the warming room she stood in. But it did the job and she felt cleaner as she looked down at the purple dress she had worn for the past four days. She did her best to smooth it out. If she was stuck in this situation, she would at least keep her dignity. But there was no smoothing out the upper portion of the creased and wrinkled fabric.

She reached into the skirt, delicately unfastening the buttons that held it to the waistband. She removed the little upper sleeved-vest and laid it carefully on the bed. The white cotton shirt was far easier to smooth out and despite feeling slightly more vulnerable in just the skirt and shirt, she felt more presentable. She fixed the ruffle, and then moved back to the door. She listened intently as she did what she could with her hair. It was damp and greasy, but with enough concentration, she had it set up into a neat and presentable bun. She used her fingers to twirl the lose hair near her forehead into little curls.

Hunger began to gnaw at her more violently. Her stomach screamed to the point of pain. As the pain in her head began to grow, matching the painful cry of her stomach, she took a deep breath and stepped from the room. She listened intently but heard only the rush of music, laughter, and singing swirling around together. She looked down at the other rooms, waiting for someone to step out and spot her. No one did and she moved down the stairs on shaky legs. Her hands trembled and she placed her white knuckled grip on the rough banister.

She came around the bend and blinked at the crowed of people. Little spots blanketed her vision. She had not eaten since that morning. A few bites of stale bread and a sip or so of hot beer had not lasted the day.

She scanned the room for Frank and took another step. Her hunger outweighed her fear, but each moment that passed that she could not locate him, her anxiety rose dramatically. She swallowed shards of glass and cleared her throat softly. The sound was lost to even her, smothered by the crush of the crowed in the little saloon.

“Look at you there, girlie,” a man slurred. She turned her head to find a man staggering up the stairs, dirt caked finger nails clutching at the banister to keep from falling on his face. Her lips parted, opening and closing like a fish begging for water. “Come on then girlie. I got a cock you can ride.”

“No,” she got out. She took a step back and the man continued to plummet toward her, feet scuffling along the stairs. He grinned, teeth rotting from blackening gums. She looked back into the room, calling for Friendly Frank with every fiber of her being. The man’s filthy hands stretched out and curled shut. A finger nail brushed the fabric of her shirt.

He plummeted backward, slamming down on the hard wooden steps hard. His head smacked against the wood with a thwack. He slid down the rest of the way, dazed, but not unconscious. She looked up, eyes wide and full of terror.

The moment his arm wrapped around her middle she fell against him. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs, doing their best to break free from the little cage of bone.

“I gotcha,” he said kindly. “I gotcha.”

A rush of air left her lungs and her knees buckled.

“Had my eyes on you the whole time,” he added. “You weren’t never in danger.”

She nodded silently and, surprising herself, she pressed her forehead to his chest. Her hand clutched at his shirt sleeve, the other the shoulder of his vest. His hand pressed to her lower back. Another squeezed her waist gently.  

“Y’alright?” he asked. She looked up and he touched her cheek. 

“I’m hungry,” she breathed out. She stepped away from and though his hands left her, hers remained on him for balance. She squeezed at his arms, finding comfort in the strength she felt beneath her clutching grip.

“’Course y’are,” he said. “Been sleeping all day.”

“All day?” she asked in surprise. He gave a nod.

“Night and day,” he answered. He looked out toward the door with a nod. She turned and saw only darkness. “This way now.”

He took her hand and guided her down the stairs. They had to sleep over the dazed man. They maneuvered around his concerned friends. As they passed, she stepped closer to Frank. She reached out her other hand and grabbed onto his shirt. He glanced back at the man and it was then that she noticed he had shaved. His face was washed, his face shaved, and his hair combed. He looked younger, but she was not sure if she really liked it or not.

“Well mornin’ princess,” a man said as they arrived at their destination. The man looked up from his hat and he slapped down a card on the table. He looked up and she recognized the long, jagged scar that stretched down his face. His cheek bulged and he spit to the side. Black sludge slipped from between his lips.  

“Sleepin’ all day aint good for your health,” another of Frank’s friends said. The one not called Blackjack.

Frank took his seat and she looked around for an empty spot. He raised one hand in the air and reached out with the other.  He seized the fabric of her skirt and pulled her closer.

“You know the good thing about a girl sleeping all day?” a third man said. He was dressed like a proper gentleman. Face clean, suit tailored. He had his own girl on his lap, dressed scantily, her lips wrapped around his earlobe.

“They’re up all night,” the fourth man at the table cackled. She colored and pressed her lips together. She looked to Frank but he did not seem fazed. He picked up his cards and examined them.

“Which one o’ you bastards looked at my cards?” he asked. Her stomach growled and she frowned at him. Was her lack of food not slightly more important right now? Everyone called out their denials and a girl appeared, dressed as the one on the gentleman’s lap, with a pitcher and a serving platter.

Frank slapped the cards down angrily and patted her hip. She slid from his lap and examined the platter. 

“Finish your game. I’ll come back for a fresh deck. Over here, Susanna,” he instructed. He pressed his hand to her lower back. He snapped his finger at a couple in a booth. The man turned from the girl, a scowl ready on his face. He saw Frank and hurriedly escorted the girl from the seat. Frank nudged Arabella into the seat and then slid in beside her.

“Thank you kindly, Susanna,” he said. Arabella looked up in time to see the cold look shot in their direction. “Eat up now, darlin’.”

He rested his elbow on the table and pressed his cheek to his fist. He smiled over at her.    

“You’re gon’ need your strength.”

She picked up the fork and knife with trembling hands. She pressed it to the loaf of hot bread. His brow furrowed as he watched her begin to cut herself a thin slice.

She struggled to cut into the bread and his gaze flickered from the bread, to her trembling hands, to her face, and then back again.

“Aint no one here to impress, Miss Arabella. Just rip it apart,” he said and she glanced up. She looked back at her slightly shaking hands and shook her head. She cut into the bread, and carved off a small and respectable slice. That she picked up with her hands and brought to her lips. She bit off a tiny bite and chewed slowly. His eyes narrowed as he watched her.

“You do not look as good.”

She did not realize she was hearing her own voice for a moment. He continued to stare. When his head tilted to the sound, more lines creasing his forehead, she realized she had spoken aloud. She had not initially even realized she thought it.

 “The stubble I mean,” she mumbled. She wished she had more than bread. She reached out, remembering her thirst, and took large, unladylike sips of beer.

“That so, darlin’?” he asked and she gently ripped apart the slice of bread. She nodded dumbly. She picked up her fork and knife once more to cut off another little slice. He reached out and grabbed the bread before the blade could touch the crust. He ripped into a multitude of little parts and then left them scattered on the plate. She looked at him in surprise and then lowered the utensils. She chewed on the bread silently.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

He lifted a finger and played with the pink shawl he still had wrapped around his neck. The fabric shifted and she spotted a discoloration of skin around his neck. She frowned, eyes lingering on the spot and he lifted the scarf back up. Her eyes found his and she looked back to the bread. Timidly her eyes flickered back up. She tried to keep her gaze away, but it searched for the strange mark she had seen against her will.

He leaned back onto the arm resting on the table before them with a smile curving his lips upward. His fingers hooked around the pink silk and pulled it downward.

“You wan’ look, darlin’? I aint tryin’ta hide it,” he said. Her eyes moved to the bread and then back to his neck. He placed the scarf on the table and pulled the collar of his shirt down. A long cord of purple skin wrapped around his neck, angry and rippled.

“Lost a poker game in Kentucky. Didn’t have the means to pay. That’ll cost a man his life in most parts,” he grinned.

“They tried to hang you?” she asked.

“Aw, no,” he answered. “Chicken wire,” he said. He brought his hands up to his neck, making the motion of a man holding it to this throat.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Christ, darlin’, I put a bullet ‘tween his eyes,” he answered, leaning back once more. His shirt covered most of the scar. He reached for the scarf and wrapped it back around his neck. The girl came over with a steaming plate and her eyes widened. A pie was placed in front of her and she immediately inhaled the intoxicating aroma of potatoes and meat.  She dug her fork into the crust and placed a hot mound into her mouth. She cared little that it burned her tongue and paid no mind to the discomfort it brought her skin in such heat. She could think of little else but filling her stomach. He continued to smile at her, icy eyes alight.

“Goddamn, you just so beautiful,” he said. Despite herself, she looked down to her food with a smile on her lips and a blush on her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’ve been thinkin’ on you since that train. Crazy, you been drivin’ me.”

“My apologies, sir,” she answered. “I… I must thank you. For coming to my rescue on the staircase. I would have waited for you to retrieve me, but I was so hungry.”

She wasted no time bringing up another spoonful to her lips. His lips lifted.

“A man doesn’t leave his girl to fend for herself,” he drawled softly. She looked at him, a crease deepening in her forehead. She looked around the room, the manner of people within. She saw Thad’s face this time, clear as the day he left her. She looked back at Friendly Frank. His eyes twinkled.              

She looked down at her pie and he let her eat in silence. He looked over his shoulder, brushing his hand over his hair. She rested the fork down on the empty plate and leaned back.

“Feelin’ better?”

She gave a little nod. Her eyes moved back to her empty plate.

“Yeah?”

She nodded again.

“Feelin’ uh… secure?”

She looked up. Her eyes widened ever so slightly. Her lips parted. His mouth curved upward.

“Yeah,” he murmured and reached for her hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Not yet,” she rushed out.

He was half way to standing and he froze. Face angled downward, he eyes rolled upward to find hers. The look in his eyes was frightening. An anger like she had never seen before.

“You think I’m stupid?” he spit out.

“What. No,” she breathed.

“‘Cause I aint fuckin’ stupid,” he spat.

“I know that, sir please, I –”

“You made me a promise,” he reminded her. “And I could of had you last night. I could of had you at the outpost.”

“You could have,” she agreed. He leaned in closer, one arm on the back of the booth, the other on the table. She pressed herself to the back wall. Her dry lips trembled as he came closer.

“You’re tryin’ my patience, Miss Arabella. It’s wearin’ mighty fuckin’ thin.”

“I know, I know,” she whispered. She reached up and touched his chest. A thick blue vein pulsed in his forehead. She touched the back of his neck, gently petting the hot skin. “I’m sorry. I’m simply… so frightened.”

His gaze softened again, but only just. Those cold eyes moved to her lips. There was heat, desire… and aggression. Her eyes flickered around the room. Dirty men. Violent men. Men that would do far worse things than the man seated beside her.

“I will go,” she said. “I will go now.”

His eyes darted back up to hers.

“You have been gentle. And kind. And polite.” She licked her lips nervously. “And I shall show my gratitude to you, as I have promised, affectionately and enthusiastically.”

“Affectionately?” he asked.

“It means –”

“I know,” he started sharply, but his voice soon tapered off, “… what affectionately means.”

She gave only a small nod. She bit her lips nervously, mind racing. His head tilted to the side. His hand scrubbed over his mouth and messaged his freshly shaved skin.

“I thought you’d like it better,” he muttered.

“I do not _dislike_ it.”

He looked at her, eyes twinkling once more with amusement.

“Come here, then,” he groaned and pushed himself from the booth. He held out a hand and she accepted it. Her muscles quivered from within. Her lips tingled. Her heart was fluttering.

He guided her through the saloon, past his friends, none of whom said a word. Her lips turned downward as they passed the staircase and stepped through the saloon doors.

Warmth clung to the air, not yet evaporated into the greedy clear night sky, but the breeze was cool. It brought some relief to her flushed cheeks. She turned her face upward to the sky, trusting him to guide her.

He stopped them at a well and retrieved a bucket of water. Plunging his hand within, he filled his canteen. He handed it to her without a word and she took it gladly. The beer had done little to quench her thirst.  

Laughter drew her attention upward and she watched a group of men stagger from the saloon and head toward their horses. The words that reached them had her ears burning, stomach turning. Her eyes sought out Friendly Frank Lawson. His hand retrieved a snuff box from his pocket. She watched as he flicked it open and brought a pinch to his nostril.

“What would you have done?”

Once more, she spoke thoughts before she even knew she was having them.

“Done, sweetheart?” he asked, taking another pinch and sniffing it in his other nostril.

“If Cornelius had not come to rescue me,” she said. He looked up, face down, eyes up, brows lifted. There was a little lift to his lips. “Would you have taken me with you… afterward.”

He smiled and came toward her. To help quell her fear, she raised the canteen to her lips.

“What you think I would o’ done?” he asked.

“If I knew the answer to that question I would not have asked it,” she replied. His lips moved further up to the sky.

“You must have a thought.”

She stared into his eyes as long as she could. Finally she looked down, stretching out her hands to give him the canteen.

“Privy over there. You need it?” he asked. She shook her head. He took her hand. “Come on, now, darlin’.”

She seemed to glide after him. Her feet moved but she did not feel them. It seemed all she did was blink, and they were at his door.

“Word o’ caution, darlin’,” he said as he opened the door. “Don’t wan’ leave doors unlocked round here.”

“I did not have the key,” she protested weakly. He motioned for her to step inside.

She walked all the way to the bed and then stopped. Her throat was dry and she lifted the canteen to her lips again. It did nothing to wet her mouth. She turned slowly.

He stood leaning against the door, clicking it shut with the force of his back and he reached into his pocket. His lips were curved upward. Those blue eyes were alight with a frightful excitement. His tongue flicked out between his lips and he turned. The sound of the tumblers turning over had her eyes closing just a moment. When they opened again, he was staring back at her.

“You made me a promise,” he reminded her again. She licked her lower lip and her feet brought her to stand before him. Her hands shook as she brought them upward. His eyes watched her intently.

She pulled gently on one end of the scarf. The pink fabric slowly brushed down the tanned skin of his neck. Her eyes followed it as it fell from his shoulders. She clutched at it, feeling the cool silk, examined the areas now lightly stained with a day’s sweat. She tossed it over to the bureau.

Her hands moved upward again. He wore no tie. She touched top button of his vest nervously. Her eyes flickered up to the scar on his neck. 

The first button popped free and a little burst of air passed from her lips. Her finger tips moved to the next button. Another breath left her. Deep and shuddering. His hands closed around her waist and pulled her closer.

“Give me those lips, darlin’,” he murmured. She looked up. He hesitated just a moment, eyes flooded with desire.

His lips were warm and soft. Their noses scrunched together. His hand grabbed the back of her head.

He pulled back briefly, but their noses remained touching.

“I came there,” he murmured against her lips. “To take you… by force… if necessary.”

His lips pressed back to hers. His hand applied more pressure to her juncture of her head and neck, forcing her face to angle upward towards him. The kiss remained soft and chaste. Her finger freed the next button. His fingers trailed over her cheekbone.

“One taste,” his hand on her cheek took on more force. His thumb pressed to her pink skin. “Is all it would take.”

She undid the last button of the vest and he kissed her again. This time the kiss was longer. Force was added. His tongue pressed her to lips. Her own hands pushed his vest off of his shoulders and onto the floor.

“To bewitch me,” he added. “Go sit on the bed.”

She moved to the bed. There was a strange warmth in her belly.  He lit the gas lamp, adding to the moonlight that flooded in through the broken slats. He sat down on the edge of the bed. His hand rested on her knee and he squeezed.

“I’m gon’ make you a deal,” he said softly. He brushed a curl from her temple with a finger. “In five minutes,” he reached into his pocket and retrieved the gold watch she had helped him steal. “I’m gon’ slide my hand up your skirt, and slip my fingers into your honey pot.”

He leaned in, placing his lips to her cheek.  It moved inward, pressing to her earlobe. His tongue, hot and wet, circled. He sucked the skin between his lips. She shivered. Her eyes closed and the strangest of sensations consumed her.

“If it’s empty… I don’t touch you… and I bring you home tomorrow…” he lowered his lips. His teeth scraped against her neck. “And if I find honey… I get to you keep’ya.”

She was not entirely sure what he meant. She could only try and fight the involuntary convulsion her body endured as he kissed her pulse. She pressed her thighs together.

“Fair?”

She nodded. He grunted softly. He recaptured her lips.

A whimper left her when she felt his hand at the top button of her shirt. He swallowed it, opening his mouth wider on hers. Only the first two buttons of her blouse were opened, before he dropped his hand to her opposite hip. What he was doing was like nothing she had experienced.

Gone was the memory of kissing Thad in the goodbye three years before. That soft peck to the lips. Hands behind their backs, chaste and proper. An uneven breath escaped her nose.   

She missed the scrap of his stubble against her face. She pushed her tongue outward. It pressed to his.           

“I don’t even need five minutes,” he breathed between kisses. His fingers circled around the fabric of her skirt. He gently lifted it upward. “You just need a proper man to lift your skirts.”

“No. I –”   

He smothered her words with another kiss. His hand pressed to her ribcage. Her skirt lifted to rest over her knees. He squeezed her side. With a light, ghost of a touch, his hand skirted over her breasts. There was a tightening. Warmth. A near explosion of feeling.

He broke off the kiss and looked to his watch.

“Ready, my beautiful Yankee?” he whispered. She did not nod but neither did she shake her head. She simply wanted to have his mouth back on hers… she would have to remind him not to shave tomorrow.

He lifted her skirts and her body tensed. His fingers played skillfully with the tie of her drawers and the open parted. She bit on her bottom lip hard, eyes screwing shut. A sound left him. It was a combination between a sigh and a groan, but it was low and full of passion. He almost seemed hesitant.

Finally, his fingers slipped downward. His thumb brushed her bud and a gasp rocketing from her mouth. He pressed down and dragged his thumb downward. Her thighs pressed together hard and she jerked. She had no idea how to understand the feeling.

A smirk came to the outlaw’s face. His other hand ran over her hair as he examined her face. His finger tips pressed down. They arched and curled, pressing to her virgin opening.

“Oh… Miss Arabella,” he cooed, low in her ear. “Honey. Honey. Honey.”

One of his fingers pushed forward. It slipped into and her lips parted. Her face crumpled.

“You know what that means, Arabella?” he asked. She shook her head wordlessly. “That means your mine now.”

He took her hand and placed it in his lap. There was warmth and steel beneath her hand. She squeezed her eyes shut and he pressed her hand to his lap harder. He left it there and moved to unbuttoned her blouse. She trembled.

His mouth found hers as he disrobed her. The blouse was pushed from her shoulders, but his mouth never left hers.

“Stand,” he said abruptly, taking his lips from hers. He got to his feet and pulled her up. He turned her with gentle insistency and his fingers began pulling at her corset.

“Finally,” he breathed behind her. He yanked at the strings hard. Fear and a feeling she could not comprehend warred with her. He reached around once the laces were pulled free. The corset fell in a mess at her feet. His hand pressed to her stomach and he pulled her against him. He titled her head back and pressed his nose to her throat. Her scent was inhaled deeply, occupying him as his hands yanked at the fastener of her skirt.

In no time at all that fell to the floor as well.

“Mr… Mr. Lawson,” she breathed. He gently pulled the strings at her drawers. Her eyes fluttered as they fell. Now, only her shift remained.

“Anderson,” he murmured in her ear. His hands closed around her breasts. He pushed her back closer to his chest.

“Anderson,” she repeated. Gently he turned her. With the gentlest of nudges he pushed her back onto the bed.  

“Take it off,” he ordered and began to unbutton his shirt.            

She gripped her shift nervously.

“‘Affectionate,’” he said. “‘Enthusiastic.’”

She took in a deep breath and lifted up the shift. She pulled it over her head and tossed it to the side. She dare not look at him. She did not need to. She could feel the heat in his eyes. The passion and desire. The frightful, obsessive lust.

The bed bent downward and he crawled toward her. She looked up. His body was covered in lean muscles. Veins bulged in his powerful arms. A fine smattering of blond hair covered his chest. He was pulling at his belt buckle as he approached her.

The scar on his neck was not notable in the lamp light. The ones on his rippled abdomen were.

“H-how…” she licked her upper lip. “Did you get those in Kentucky?”

He settled himself over her naked body. His eyes raked over her milky breasts, down her smooth belly, over her pretty thighs.

“Gettysburg,” he answered after a long pause.

“You fought… for the confederacy?” she asked, slightly out of breath.

“I fought for Georgia,” he answered and pressed a finger to her lips. “Now hush, pretty Yankee.”

She fell silent and his hand reached up to cup a breast. The pad of his thumb brushed over a nipple. His head dipped and the opposite breast was greeted by his lips. The pulsing returned and her brow creased deeply. He pulled back and dragged his tongue along the sensitive skin.    

A moan escaped her.

“Please,” she whined. His fingers played slipped between her legs. She felt the wetness. He rubbed it into her. He spread it over her lower lips.

A finger slid into her and stroked slow and steady. After this, she would be ruined. Thad might not even want her when it was all over. Those thoughts were fleeting. A second finger pressed into her, stretching her. She bucked her hips and pressed her knees together. His lips returned to hers.

“It aint gon’ feel too great at first,” he murmured too her. “But you got’trust me. Yea?”

She nodded and reached up to grip his shoulders. His fingers touched the top of her thighs but he did not apply any pressure. It was but a feather light touch.

“Spread ‘em for me, darlin’,” he encouraged gently. Her legs parted willingly and he all but growled.      

He pulled his trousers down below his waist. She closed her eyes and waited. He spit. His thumb brushed across her bud.        

The pressure was indescribable but not painful. His muscles tensed beneath her hands. She could feel them tighten and flex. Her hands smoothed down his biceps. The pressure continued and she dug her nails into his skin.

He let out a strangled laugh against her face. He kissed her cheek. He licked her ear. He bit her neck. But he did not move.

“I’d o’ taken you with me,” he said to her. “Not a cunt in America compares to this.”

The word sent an sort of electricity through her.

“Please,” she breathed. She did not know what she was asking for. He pulled his hips back. A long moan parted from her lips. Her brow furrowed. He pushed back into her. She bit her lower lip hard.

He seized her lips once more and his movements sped up. It was a whirlwind. A confusing, uncomfortable, euphoric whirlwind. She was entirely unaware of the sounds leaving her lips.  

Her neck was captured by a powerful hand and he squeezed gently. He held her in place so he could press his lips to her ear. He was saying something but she could not hear him. Then her earlobe was between his teeth. He grunted and groaned and he was speaking again.

And then an explosion. She saw light behind her eyes. Her nipples tightened.  The area between her legs tingled and warmed. 

She lay panting beneath him and he continued his movements just a few moments more. He pulled from her, leaving her horribly empty. He spent himself on her stomach, pumping his hand rapidly. She stared up at the ceiling, covered in a thick layer of sweat.                     

Gingerly, he placed a kiss to one cheek, then the other. He stroked her sweaty hair from her face gently.

“Arabella,” he said softly in her ear. She turned her face toward his and her lips parted, but her eyes remained closed. “You aint goin’ nowhere for some time now. Y’understand?”

She nodded and rolled her head to the side. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up to see the moon shining brightly in the clear night sky.    

                  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you that have commented! Please let me know what you think!


	6. 6

6

-

The moon was beautiful as it came shining in through the window. It was large and full, not a cloud in the sky to block its light from shining in through the slats. She wondered where Thad might be in that moment. If he had arrived in the West yet. How worried he must be. She blinked back shameful tears and looked up at the ceiling.

Frank was pulling his trousers back up over his hips. He tugged his shirt on over his lean body. He did not say a word to her as he redressed and she closed her eyes. Her lower lip trembled and she rolled over on her side.

“Want somethin’ta drink, darlin’?” he asked. “Somethin’ta eat?”

“No thank you,” she whispered.

“I’ll get’yuh some water, yeah?” he asked. She said nothing. She just pulled the blanket up over her naked body. He left and the door clicked shut.

The room was unbearably hot but she kept the blankets over her sweaty skin. The air hung thickly in the room. The smell of sex wafting up from her damp thighs, reminding her of the depth of her shame with each intake of breath.

“I’m sorry, Thad,” she whispered into the pillow. Hot tears leaked out of her eyes. “Please forgive me.”

She begged for forgiveness to God above and her love somewhere out there in the hot night, searching for his kidnapped fiancée, but not because her virginity had been lost. That was going to happen no matter what she had done. She begged for forgiveness because deep down in her heart she knew that she had enjoyed it.

She had tried to muster Thad’s pretty eyes. She tried to picture his handsome smile. Three years had not seemed like such a separation until just this morning.                                                                                                                                                                  The fantasies she had entertained in the dark of the night, curled up underneath her covers had suddenly become very real, but it was not her handsome fiancé that had elicited those whorish moans from her lips. She had bucked, and mewed, and cried for a complete stranger. An outlaw. A thief. A murderer.

Scruffy, dirty, coarse, a _traitor_. Her cheeks itched from his stubble. Her lips tingled. There was a fluttering in her stomach and a warmth between her legs. His hands were strong and warm. Even the way the rough skin scraped against her smooth flesh sent a tingle up her spine.

She pressed her face harder into the pillow and let out a low shudder. She breathed in deeply and was consumed with the smell of him. Rich and smoky, masculine.  Tears continued to stream down her cheeks and she reached between her legs. She pressed her hands to the little mound of coarse hair, bending her knees and pressing her thighs more closely to her body. She breathed in more deeply, pressing her nose harder into the fabric. She focused on the smell, let herself get lose in it, and her nerves were calmed.

The door opened and shut. She sniffled, brought up a hand from between her thighs and wiped her cheek. She kept her back to the outlaw as he placed something on the table. Roasted duck competed for the smell of sex in the room.

“Good eat’n here, should get somethin’ else in yuh,” he said and plopped down on the bed. She nodded and sniffled. There was a pause and then the plate was put down beside her water. He gently tugged the blanket down from the crook of her neck and he leaned over her.

“You cryin’?” he asked softly. He sounded almost sound. She shook her head. She did not want him to be mad at her. “I can see, darlin’,” he added. He reached down and gently ran the back of his pointer finger over her cheek. “I hurt you?”

“No,” she said but cleared her throat. “No.”

He lowered his eyes and gently stroked the skin of her arm. She tucked it over the blanket, hiding her breasts from his gaze.

“Thinkin’ on that Yankee?” he asked. She sniffled, biting at her fingernails with a trembling mouth. She struggled to gain control of it, but found herself lacking the ability.

“He…” she murmured. “He could forgive me… if I were raped.”

She sucked her lower lip into her mouth. Tears came back to her eyes. He clicked his tongue together softly and turned her face toward his with a gentle grip to her chin. He leaned down and placed a gentle, chaste kiss to her mouth.

“No one gon’ say you aint a virtuous woman,” he told her softly. He scooped up a tear from one cheek with a chewed down nail. Then he took care of her other cheek. She moved to lie on her back, her hips still bent to the side, knees off toward the window. “I just made you mine, is all. Aint no one’s fault but his.”  

“It’s not his fault,” she began angrily.

“Take a drink,” he offered and held out his canteen. Knowing what it was, she reached for it greedily. She lifted it up, tilting back her head, and took three, large gulps. She grimaced and sputtered. Warmth immediately began to fill her once more.

“This is no one’s _fault_ but yours,” she snapped angrily, giving him the canteen back. “Not his.”

“Aint it?” he asked and put the canteen down. His eyes moved over her face. His tenderness had an obsessive nature to it. “Pretty little thing like you. Any man would wan’ snatch you up.” 

He brushed back the damp strands of hair stuck her the sides of her face. He gently stroked his finger tips down her chin, over her throat. She swallowed, shifting his fingers against her skin.

“I can’t be blamed…” His head tilted to the side. His lips parted as his gaze turned downward. “I’m a hot blooded man, Arabella… and you make me burn.”

Her heart began to thud. Her skin tingled.  

She closed her eyes and turned her head to the side but he hushed her gently. He stuck out a finger, directing her face back toward his.

“Eyes open,” he whispered. She did not and he gripped her chin firmly. “Arabella.”

He tapped her cheek with a finger.

“Open’em,” he ordered more gruffly and her eyes popped over. His eyes were alight with that maniacal desire. “Aint nothin’ wrong with bein’ passionate. Aint nothin’ wrong with it. You got that feelin’? Darlin’? You got that feelin’ in your belly?”

He shifted, pulling the blankets down with a violent yank. A cry escaped her and she was left naked on the bed. She tried to sit up to seize the blanket, her shirt, anything that would shield her from his gaze, but he held her down, both his hands seizing her wrists and holding them up by her head. Her nipples were hard and goose bumps rippled across her body, despite how hot the room was.

His eyes were nearly full to the brim with passion as he stared at her. She could not help but meet his gaze, breasts heaving.

“It’s hot yeah?” he asked her thickly. She swallowed. She closed her eyes and tried to think of Thad. She pushed back the feeling of warmth. His hands on her wrists pulsed, firm enough to make a point, but not hard enough to hurt. “Open them pretty eyes, n’ keep em open, or I’ll paint your bottom red, you hear?”

“You…” she licked her upper lip. “You would not dare.”

He gave her a wicked grin.

“Gimme a reason,” he told her. “Eyes open.”

He looked over her body, soft and creamy white. His hand was shades darker as it trailed along her stomach. His finger circled her belly button.

“You got a heat in here?” he asked. Her lower lips trembled but she nodded. He hummed and lowered lower. His hand left her stomach and he slipped his hands between her legs. The heat he spoke of now pooled deep in her belly. She sputtered again, face crumbling. “Shh, shh,” he cooed gently. “Aint nothin’ wrong with it,” he said again. He rubbed his hand between her legs. “You a God fearin’ woman?”

She nodded and swallowed thickly. Her eyes were wide as they stared up at him.

“Think He’d a made it feel so good, if you weren’t ‘sposed to like it?” he asked. She considered that a moment, but a hard brush of his calloused palm against her sensitive bud had her sucking in a deep breath. He chuckled softly.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed. “I told you they lied to you. Yeah?”

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t make me again.”

“None o’ that now,” he breathed. “You promised.”

Her eyes fluttered closed and she squeezed them tight. He slipped his fingers into her and she bit down on her lip, smothering a cry of surprise. She shook her head and found his arm. She tried to push the hand away feebly. He hardly even noticed.

 _Whore_. She thought it viciously to herself.

The shame was quickly fading away with the feel of his sandy trousers straddling her naked hips. His hands trailed over her ribs and down her hips. His finger tips gently traced her skin. Her eyes fluttered open again and she looked up at him. It was pure lust in his eyes as he looked down at her. His palms covered her breasts and he squeezed gently.

He lowered himself down and mouth met hers. He kissed her firmly, but there was less raw emotion in it. He coaxed her into the kiss. He pressed his tongue to her lips. He sucked gently on her lips. He groaned as he got his belt free and moved his lips to her neck.

She pushed gently at his chest. She whispered ‘no’, but it hardly registered in the quiet room.

“Just ‘member,” he breathed around her mouth as he positioned himself at her sore entrance. “He sent you into the desert alone.”

He pressed his mouth back to hers and he slowly thrust himself into her. It almost hurt more this time than it had last, but she foced on the intense pleasure she felt and the incredible shame that came with it.

His hips moved slowly but steadily. His finger tips dug into her thighs as he angled her hips upward.

“Good girl,” he breathed in her ear as his hips began to pump faster. “Good girl.”

“No,” she  breathed, and her head fell back against the pillow. Her hands tried to push at him but they only seemed to succeed in tugging him closer. 

He groaned loudly in her ear. His lips pulled back and he pressed his teeth together hard.   

“Good,” he ground out with each thrust. “Fuckin’. Girl.”

He reached over and gripped her chin. His nose pressed to her cheek. He panted hard.

“Feels good, don’t it?” he asked.

She nodded, breathing hard.  There was another eruption of pleasure. By the time she came down from the bliss, he was just beginning to slow his grunting, his hard thrusts turned more sporadic, he pulled out of her to spill himself on her thigh.

She gasped when he grabbed her hair and tilted her head to the side rather gruffly. He kissed her cheek. He licked her neck.                       

“Aint nothin’ wrong with likin’ it,” he murmured to her, his hand still firmly gripping her hair.       

“I betrayed the man I love,” she whispered. _Twice._ Her eyes were closed. Her lips were parted.

“Nah,” he answered. He got himself up on an elbow. He stroked her cheek gingerly. He placed a very gentle kiss to her lips. “He betrayed you.”

He pushed himself up and reached fixed his trousers. Once done, he reached for the roasted duck and the jug of water. He rested the water on his knee. When her eyes fluttered open he was staring at the wall before him, a fat piece of duck in his fingers, chewing wildly, but with his lips pressed together. She looked for her shirt and retrieved it with an arm over her breasts. He watched her a moment and then chuckled. He looked back to the wall with a shake of his head.

“Have some?” she asked quietly. Her shirt was now back on, covering herself from his view. He held the plate out and she dug her fingers into the moist meat. She put it between her lips, but before she could fully chew and swallow, she was bringing up the jug of water to her lips.

“You fought in the war?” she asked. He looked over at her in some surprise. He nodded slowly and looked back to wall. He brought another bite of duck to his lips. “You were truly at Gettysburg?”   

“Wouldn’t lie ‘bout it,” he answered. He clearly did not wish to speak on it and so she looked down at her duck. She took another gulp of water.

“I’m tired,” she told him.

“Time to sleep,” he answered. He reached silently for the water.

“You will stay?” she asked. He smiled over at her.

“You gon’ miss me, darlin’?” he asked.

“I’m just scared,” she answered quietly. His eyes softened.

“Ain’t no one gon’ hurt you while I’m ‘round, darlin’. Promise you that.”

She offered him a small smile and then lowered her gaze. She nibbled on the last of her duck. She took the water from him and took a few sips. He reached for his flask on the night table and knocked it back.

“Well goddamn,” he said and slapped his knees. He got up from the bed and moved to the door. She was about to protest, to call him back, but he only checked to make sure it was already locked. The handle did not budge and he turned back to the bed. He stepped around it, threw open the window, and then walked back around, kicking his boots off as he went.

He got onto the bed and threw the blankets to the side. He lay settled down and rested his head back on the pillow. He stared up at the ceiling. He patted his stomach with his hands as he thought.  

“You aint done nothin’ wrong,” he told her again. She turned her back to him and stared at the opposite wall. She pulled the  blanet up over her shoulder. She didn’t care how hot it was. Somehow, the word of an outlaw meant very little to her.

* * *

 

Francis leaned back in his chair, staring at the newspaper in front of him. He raised the tin cup that had held his morning coffee, spit a back was of tobacco into it, and then lowered it down. He frowned and brought the paper closer to him, as if it might make the words more clear on the page. He’d been on the same word for nearly a quarter of an hour.

“Frank,” Blackjack greeted him gruffly. He slid into the opposite booth and removed his hat. It had a layer of dust on the brim. His cheeks were already flushed red. Heat radiated from his coat as he shrugged it off over his shoulder. “Where’s the girl?”  

“Sleepin’ still,” he answered. He looked at the paper again. Blackjack reached over and seized it. He stared at it a few minutes and flipped it back to Frank. 

“Found this bout thirty miles south,” he said and reached into his pocket. He smoothed out the page and slid it toward Frank. He jammed a finger down on the top of the page. “Got that negro boy at the tanner’s place to read it for me. You know the reward out for her?”

“Her?” Frank asked. “Arabella?”

“Two _thousand_ dollars,” Blackjack whispered. “ _Two. thousand. Dollars.”_

Frank’s lips parted and he reached out for the flyer. He stared at the words.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Frank breathed. He looked around the empty saloon. Charles Brewster lay unconscious to their left, leaning back against a chair, his dirty boots up on the table, hat over his face. He held his loaded six shooter in his hand as he snored softly. Frank’s heart was beating just a little harder. “Who knows ‘bout this?”

“Just me, I think,” Blackjack said. He raised a long, dirty finger nail to scratch the jagged white scar down her cheek. He said in disbelief, “You aint gon’ bring her back.”

“Re-ward will be there a month from now,” Frank snapped. “I aint got my fill yet.”                    

Blackjack leaned back and let out a deep sigh. He stared at the saloon doors and then leaned forward again.

“Anderson,” he said seriously. “Two thousand dollars. You know what I can do with that?”

“You aint getting’ the whole goddamn thing any goddamn way,” Frank snapped. “Split it three ways. Like always. And I stole her. I decide when I’m done with her.”

“Frankie,” Blackjack said. “She aint made for this life. It aint fair to her.”

He picked up the scrap of paper again. He stared at it, moving his finger across the words and moving his lips. He knew less letters than Frank did.   

“Not yet,” Frank repeated. “’n she got a fiancé,” he added. He leaned forward and snatched the yellow paper from his hand. “He gon’ put up his own re-ward. Best wait till he gets out here.”

Blackjack leaned forward and tapped the paper anxiously.

“Those gon’ be all over the goddamn New Mexico. Arizona. Texas. Damn Spaniards gon’ know the bounty out on her.”

“Then we go where they aint gon’ look,” Frank added. He slapped the back of his fingers against the paper. “Aint no goddamn picture. How the fuck they gon’ know my Yankee is their Yankee?”                            

“’Cause she don’t wan’ be here,” Blackjack countered. “’n it says your name.”

He grabbed the paper and looked it over.

“Here, the negro boy said this here is ‘Friendly Frank Lawson’. Described you.”

Frank took it back and scratched his upper brow.

Both jumped back as the saloon doors swung open. Their hands were on their pistols, but neither drew. John looked around, eyes wide, and then hurried toward them with wide eyes. His spurs clanged loudly as he crossed the floor. He glanced over his shoulders anxiously and tilted his hat back. His grey eyes were wide with excitement and fear as he slid in next to Blackjack.

“Look what I found,” he said and pulled out a flyer from his inner coat pocket. He slapped it down, smooth it out, and pointed to the top. He spoke with hushed excitement, “This here says the re-ward for –”                              

Frank spread out the poster Blackjack had brought him beside it. John paused and frowned at the posters. He looked back up at Frank and his eyes deadened some. His shoulders sunk and he leaned back.

“No pussy’s worth that much,” he said. Fran scowled and snatched at the poster. 

“I told Ed, we wait till the fiancé puts up his own.” Frank was not so sure he would. Brainless or careless. Either way, he sent a beautiful young woman into the lawless west alone. She was lucky it was he that found her on that train.  “Then we collect both, split it three ways. Like always.”

“What ‘bout the others? They’re gon’ find out ‘bout it. Billy, Topher, _Grason_. Not to mentions, Miguel and his boys. Christ, Frank, next time you steal a lady let’s not let the whole fuckin’ world know,” John snapped but kept his voice hushed.

“Well I didn’t fuckin’ plan on it there, did I,” he replied. “Billy, Topher and Grason can’t read.”

“Billy can,” Blackjack answered. “Topher, a bit.”

“N everyone takes notice to 2000$ written a top a page,” John added.

Frank slicked his hair back.  

“Everyone knows we make Tularosa home,” Blackjack said. “If we gon’ hold off, we got to get the hell outa here. They’ll be comin’ for her. Lawmen, outlaws, bounty hunters… lot a fuckin’ money.”

Frank nodded.

“You two aint gon’ kill me for a couple thousand now, is you,” he joked, but there was an anxious gleam in his eye.

“Not yet,” Blackjack answered grimly. Blackjack had been the one the one that saved him from a lynching in Kentucky. The scar around his neck was a permanent reminder of the debt he owed to him. John they had saved from the bottle just outside of Texas. Still in his uniform from the war, he had been swinging the bottle at them as they stepped past the latrines at the edge of town, jabbing his rifle at them in a rage.

“I’m gon’ fuckin’ kill you, alright,” John muttered darkly. It calmed the rest of Frank’s nerves. “Then I’m gon’ see what a two thousand dollar pussy feels like.”

Frank’s shoulders tensed.

“Two thousand dollars. Better put her mouth to good use,” Blackjack added.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouths,” Frank snapped. He pulled the posters together. He folded them together and slipped them into his pocket. “Las Cruces. Lot o’ Spaniairds. Less people speakin’ n readin’ English. Close to Mexico. Easy to slip out if need be. Lose a trail down there. You two don’t need’ta come if you don’t want.”

“N let you make off with it all?” John asked. “Don’t fuckin’ think so.”

John got to his feet and Blackjack and John followed.

“N I’m startin’ think I might want a piece o’ this pussy,” Blackjack added. Frank reached forward and grabbed the collar of his shirt. He no longer found it amusing.

“What you gon’ do Frank,” Blackjack snapped and grabbed the scarf around his neck. John stepped back and looked toward the rousing and confused Charles Brewster.

“Woowee, you two just always fighting aren’t you.”

Both turned their heads, ready to settle their little argument with a few thrown fists. Frank frowned and turned his head. Frank immediately felt himself full to the brim with repulsion.

On top of neatly combed hair rested a forage cap of Union blue.  On broad shoulders rested the blue sack coat of an enlisted man, unbuttoned to reveal his civilian clothing beneath.

“It is a small wonder you lot found yourselves smothered in defeat.”

Frank released Blackjack and turned to face him more fully.

“What brings you to Tularosa, Archie?” he asked. “Not friendly territory for a Yankee.”

“We search out our own, you’ll find,” he grinned. His central and lateral incisor on his right side were missing, as well as the canine, marring his handsome face with an imperfect smile. “See, Bart told me you have something I might want.”

A younger man stepped in and Archie slapped a hand down on his younger brother’s shoulder. He held his rifle out in front of him, holding the barrel tightly. He had the face of a young boy, but he had witnessed more horror than most did in their lives. As a drummer boy in the war, he saw more death than any sane man could handle.

“That so,” John said. He stepped to the side, away from Blackjack and Frank. Archie’s eyes followed him intently, but his face remained forward.

“It is,” he answered. “You see,” he began and reached into his navy blue sack coat. It was still stained with the blood of his last battle. He held out a little poster for them to read. Frank felt his stomach sink to his toes. “I heard you have a pretty young Yankee aristocrat here with you. Not at all the place for such a woman. I’ve come to reunite her with her family.”

His eyes twinkled as he looked to Frank.

“Surely, after two days, you boys have had your fill,” he said.  

“She aint here,” Frank said. Archie’s chin jerked upward and his charcoal eyes burned.

“Now, Frank, you and I, we’ve always been honest with one another. We’ve always been honest. Don’t you lie to me now. I _know_ she’s here.”

“She aint yours,” he said.

“You stole her,” Archie shrugged his broad shoulders. The nostrils on his hooked nose flared. “I’m here to steal her back. And do not make the mistake of believing I did not come prepared. You’re outnumbered.”

He looked to his left.

“Ah. There she is.”

Frank’s head jerked to his right. His eyes found his pretty Yankee. She stood, wide eyed on the stairs, gripping the banister tightly.

“Miss Dupont?” he asked kindly. Frank looked to Archie quickly and then back to Arabella. Her eyes were alight with thought. “Archibald Roper. At your service.”

Archie removed the forager cap, revealing the neatly combed, and slicked blond hair, long on top, cut short on the sides. He gave her a little bow.

“Fret not. We’ve come to see you safely home,” he grinned that toothless grin.

“She aint leavin’ with you,” Frank said. Arabella looked to Frank and then back to the ex-yankee soldier.

“Oh, I think she is,” he smiled. He held out a hand. “Miss, please.”

Arabella remained on the steps and looked to Frank.

“Darlin,” he told her kindly. “I’m gon’ be mighty angry. Mighty angry, when I get my hands on you again. Y’understand?”

“ _Friendly_ Frank,” Archie said with a disgusted grimaced. “Threatening a woman.”               

He shook his head and clicked his tongue.

Frank’s blue eyes darted out the window. He saw men out on horses. Charles Brewster was standing, hand on his pistol. John had his hand on his. Blackjack took a few steps from him, spreading them out. They could kill the two brothers, they might survive the ensuing fire fight, but he refused to risk Arabella’s safety.

“Miss Dupont?” Archie asked again. He bent his fingers toward her. Slowly she moved down the steps toward him. Frank watched her, his skin heating.

“Where are you from?” she asked Archie softly. He smiled kindly at her, touching the buttons of his coat.

“Connecticut,” he answered. Her face lit up.

“Was it Thaddeus that sent you? Thaddeus Burke?” her voice was soft and hopeful. A little smile crept across Frank’s face as Archie shook his head, brow furrowing.

“Your father,” he answered. Arabella’s face fell, her delicate nose crinkled, and then she put a smile on her face. She turned back to look at Frank.

“Thank you, Mr. Lawson, for your kindness,” she spoke softly, genuine feeling in her eyes. “Good bye, sir.”

“I’ll be seein’ you, sweetheart” he answered. Her smile faltered. His eyes burned into hers.

_Real soon._

“Good day to you, Mr. Lawson,” Archie smiled and pinched the brim of his cap. “And remember, you’ve touched a woman you’re not worthy of looking at for too long. Let that be your reward.”

Frank’s face remained neutral. Arabella turned her head, a look that combined concern and reproach on her face. Her eyes found his and she gave the tiniest shakes of her head.

“Good bye to you,” she called to John. She looked to Blackjack. “And you, Blackjack.”

Both remained silent. They knew as well as Frank, this wasn’t goodbye. Archie gently nudged her through the doors, holding one open for her. He looked back to Frank.

“I know you’ll be chasing us, but remember, if she dies, you’re going to have a bounty on your head. Right now, the family just wants her. They have money like you cannot imagine. Every man in the west will be coming down on your head. So be mindful of that.”

He gave a little smile and let the saloon door swing shut. Frank’s eyes moved to the windows but he could not see Arabella. He looked back to Archie.

“You see, if I do not think I will live through it, I’ll put a bullet in her myself.”

His smile grew.

“I’m not going down alone,” he said. “ _Y’understand?_ ”

Frank blinked silently. His rage pulsed through him.

“Touch a hair on her head,” Frank told him as the Yankee turned. A muscle twitched beneath his eye. A vein in his forehead was full and pulsing. “‘N I’ll skin yuh’alive.”      

Archie gave a frustrating smile and looked off to the side. He gave a shrug and then winked.

“Till we meet again, Francis!” he called and slapped his brother on the shoulder. The boy’s hands were tight around the rope of the rifle. He almost looked disappointed.        

The door swung shut as they disappeared. Horses neighed, men shouted outside. Frank remained still. His eyes slowly moved over to Brewster. Brewster waited with wide eyes. Frank jerked his head and he hurried for the back door.

“That girl,” Frank said to John and Blackjack. “Is gon’ be back in my bed… within the week. That understood?”

They both nodded grimly.

Frank walked toward the saloon doors and stepped out onto the walk. The horses were being readied. Arabella was seated with Archie on his large, black mare. Frank crossed his arms and leaned against a post. He grabbed the scarf and raised it to his nose. Arabella’s gaze found his. They simply looked at each other.

The horse was turned. No one could say Archibald Roper was not a fine horseman. Arabella turned her head to keep her eyes on Frank.     

They began to travel to the east. Frank breathed in deeply, inhaling the last of her scent form the scarf. He watched the horse holding her as it left. His eyes never strayed. Even when she turned her head to look at him as the horse rode off into the distance, his eyes never left her.     

* * *

 

Thank you to those who commented! They mean the world to me. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter.      

And just so people do know, Frank is not supposed to be a real “hero” like you see in a lot of novels or romances. I wanted to make kind of an anti-hero/anti-villian. However you wish to look at it.

I had noticed that it seems everyone has these fantasies, some of them quite dark, like the kidnapping of a young woman by a dangerous outlaw for example, but then whenever you find a novel about it, the outlaw isn’t so much an actual outlaw, just some brooding, misunderstood good guy. That isn’t this story. I wanted to make Frank an actual outlaw. He kills people, he breaks the law, he steals, all that good stuff.  But at the same time, I hope he is somewhat likable.

Let me know what you think. And once again, thank you so much for taking the time to comment.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: This story is set in a specific time. Any use of derogatory terms based on race are the characters’, not mine. Even if it is said in narration, it is from the POV of the character in question. It is used to further develop them as a character.
> 
> As you will see, sometimes a character may be referred to as a savage or as an Indian in one narration, and other times, described based on their Tribe, as they would have been preferred to be called. This is done on purpose and in no way reflects a lack of respect for any race or peoples on my part. I feel that these terms in this time period are both realistic and necessary to enhance character development.
> 
> Enjoy!

They rode over the hard, hot earth for a few hours but their pace in no way rivaled the pace the outlaws had kept upon her abduction two days prior. Archibald Roper did not share the Arabella’s deep seeded terror that any moment a pack of outlaws will come down upon them. They galloped at a comfortable pace and from behind him, she did not need to keep that tight a grip around his middle.

All in all, there were ten men in their company. If Frank managed to get together the same amount of men that he had robbed the hotel or raided the ranch with, they would be outnumbered. She voiced this concern to her new companions as they stopped in a small crop of trees about ten miles to the north west. They dismounted, watered their horses, and had a small bite to eat. The moment she was lowered from the horse by Archibald Roper, she began to hurried warnings.

“He had over ten men when he came to my cousin’s ranch,” she told him as he released her waist without lingering even a half moment too long.

“Frank’s got a way of finding fast friends,” he gave her his toothless grin. Judging by the relatively fine state she found his remaining teeth in, she gathered it must have been an accident and not from rot that the teeth were lost.

“We must not stop then!” she rushed out looking around at the frustratingly calm men.

“Please, Miss DuPont, have a seat, I will get you some water and something to eat. You may relieve yourself if you wish. None will follow.”

“No, we must go now,” she pressed. “He will follow –”

“I have no doubt he will make some sort of attempt at stealing you back, madam. It will not be at this moment in time. I promise. Please, you are clearly distraught. Sit, drink, eat. I will come to join you in just a moment.”

“Mr. Roper, sir, you must hear me –”

He raised a hand and gave a gentle smile. His eyes were kind. Very dark, his pupils too large for his eyes by the look of it, but they twinkled with amusement and gentle patience.

He reached out and with large, gentle hands, he gripped her shoulders. She had the presence of mind momentarily to be embarrassed by her attire, the yellowing shirt, her wrinkled skirt, the limp ruffles; He gave no sign that he even noticed it. He squeezed gently in a calming manner.

“Miss DuPont. If I believed for a moment he was following now, I would not have stopped. Trust me. Now, sit, and I will join you shortly.”

She nodded slowly but looked out from the little crop of trees and out to the desert beyond. She waited to see the riders come out from the horizon.

“Here, Miss,” a young man said. He looked to be about her age. She turned to offer a smile and he raised himself up from a stump. He removed his cap and motioned toward the vacated seat with it. His rifle hung over his shoulder. She glanced back over her shoulder and then moved toward the stump.

“Bartholomew,” he greeted. He offered her his hand and she gave it a dainty shake. “Archie’s my big brother. He’ll keep you safe.”

“Thank you,” she said and accepted with some surprise a canteen from a large, meaty looking man. Ruddy cheeked and breathing loudly though a mouth hidden by a long, red beard, he gave a curt nod and moved over to sit on the hard earth. He pulled out a pipe and began to suck on it. She took a few drinks from the canteen and looked up at the sky. There was not a cloud to be seen but the sun was not nearly as punishing as it had been the past few days.

A strip of salted meat was handed to her next and she bit into it hard. She gnawed on it a few minutes before she managed to rip a piece off. That she had to suck on until it was soft enough to swallow.

Archibald came toward them just a few minutes later and took the seat of another silently eating man. He smiled over at Arabella and reached into his inner pocket. He retrieved a piece of yellow parchment and handed it over to her.

“I would like to tell you I am here out of the goodness of my heart. To be honest, it did bother me to know a good Northern woman was being held by a gang of disgruntled rebel outlaws. But the risk to myself and my friends, as well as the effort it took to get out here so fast would have been too great. But two thousand dollars,” he tapped the paper and a crinkling sound rippled through the paper. “Well, that’s enough to send any man on such a mission.”

“How did they make it this far so fast?” she asked. “It’s been only two days.”

“Money is a wonderful thing. I would assume the wire got to your father and he sent another wire to every printer in the western territories. Or your cousin set to have them printed immediately, knowing your father’s fortune. Many from the Northeast are well aware of the DuPont fortune.”               

“We are not the preeminent DuPonts in New England,” she mumbled. “That honor belongs to my uncle’s family.”

“A DuPont is a DuPont,” he grinned. His missing teeth did very little to detract from the brightness of his smile. “The point is, these are everywhere, and more being printed each and every day, and spread throughout the west for every man with a horse and a pistol to see,” he shrugged and gave a little chuckle. “If they can read. But the people Frank runs with… they won’t just go kidnap a girl he fancies. And if they knew who you were, they’d want to turn you in themselves. And I doubt he wants to share the money with that many people, if he even wants to part with you just yet. So you see, he’s going to need to be smart about all this. Sometime at night I would guess. When we get to a town to sleep. That’s when he’ll try and  make his move and we’ll be ready for it. But right now, in the heat of the day, when we can see them approaching for miles out, with all ten of us armed and ready to fight…” Archie shook his head. “he’s not coming after us just yet.”        

“I suppose,” she agreed.

“Bart, come on now. Give the lady that egg. You have better sense than that,” Archie scolded gently. Bart blushed and gave a sheepish grin. He had deep dimples and flushed cheeks. His hair was cut short, but was plastered to his head with sweat.

“Sorry Miss,” he said and handed over the egg he had half peeled. She accepted it with another small thanks. The egg was warm, slightly turned, but she knew better than to refuse it. She was too hungry.

“So,” Archie said to the group, clapping his hands together. “We are going to get to the Rio Grande by night fall. I want to be at Cadiz as soon as possible. There’s a inn there we can set up a perimeter around. I think Frank’s going to suspect we move northwest too. Not hard west. Once we cross the river, any tracker they might get will have a hard time keeping track of us. Especially when we move through the mountains. Won’t have a hard time losing them there.”    

“I don’t like the mountains,” the ruddy man with the red beard said. “Too easy to get ambushed up there.”

“We could always skirt through the pass to the south,” another man offered. He had a slight southern drawl to his speech but it was very different than Frank’s deep twang.

“It’s easier to track,” Archie dismissed. “Frank’s nothing if not resourceful. His options are limited but he’s a smart son-of-a-bitch. He took a big risk taking Miss DuPont as he did. It’s out of character. Who knows what lengths he’s willing to go to.”

“Did he know you were a DuPont when he took you?” The red bearded man asked. She shook her head and swallowed a hard piece of meat before it could soften in her mouth. She grimaced as she spoke.

“I do not believe so, I never said my name. He might have seen in it in my bags…but I do not believe I had anything with my name in them.”

“Did he violate you, miss?” Bart asked gently. Archie shot him a cold look.

“Please forgive my brother,” he said coolly, dark eyes pinned to his brother. He looked back over to Arabella and his gaze softened. He had a large cut on the bridge of his nose, wide bridged and sloping. She stared at it a moment before lifting her eyes back to his. “It… would help us understand his motivations. What he might do, if we knew why he took you.”

She lowered her gaze and swallowed thickly. She stared at the piece of meat in her hands, turning it around and examining it thoughtfully. Her lips quivered and she let out a breath. One of Roper’s hands reached out to rest over hers, gentle and large. He had burn marks on his left fingers. The skin was discolored, white and red. His little finger was missing a nail completely, the skin had grown over it.

“It is alright,” he said gently. “William. Some of that salted fish?”

The southerner took some from a little leather bag and handed it to Arabella. She accepted it with another smile. This was easier to chew and she surrendered the salted meat to William in a fair trade. He ripped into it furiously and chewed loudly.

She relieved herself before they set off again. She kept her face pressed to Archibald’s back as they went, staring off into the desert. Every moment that passed she expected to see the riders coming after them. Archibald might think he knew what Frank would do, but he did not understand the situation.

Frank would come after them. He would try and take her away again. Frank had made it clear that he was not done with her. This was about more than money. When Frank came for her it wouldn’t be for a two thousand dollar prize. It would be for another night with her. It would be because he wanted to bring her back to his bed. He didn’t want the money. He wanted _her_.

She switched her gaze from her right to left a few times in her search for Frank and his gang. Even when the earth turned from hard dirt to green grass, a windy road and cooler air, she kept her gaze searching.

It was not until they arrived at the old Spanish settlement of Cadiz five or so miles from Cadiz that she felt a little frown from her lips. She was helped off the horse in the setting sun and stared off into the twilight.

“This way Miss DuPont,” Bart said with a jerk of his head. She continued to frown and stare off at the horizon. Finally, she nodded and turned her back to the road snaking its way through the cool, little town.

“The water is nearby?” she asked him. Bart nodded.

“About ten miles or so I think. Maybe less. Archie wants to get up before sunrise and have the water crossed at first light.”

She walked with Bart behind the rest of the company. Archie was speaking to the southerner and the red bearded man. He lifted his forager cap and slicked his hair back.

“He speaks like he knows Frank,” she observed as they walked up from the stables.

“We’ve had our run-ins,” Bart informed her.

“What kind of run-ins?”

“Archie charges people for protection mostly. Gets cattle back from outlaws. Goes after savages that have taken wares or killed relatives. Got a horse thief for an old woman in Bakersfield a few miles north. Never has been able to nail old Friendly Frank Lawson down though.”

“A rivalry then?” Arabella asked. 

“Suppose so. Frank fought for the rebs. Archie obviously, fought for the union. Frank, he’s got a frightful hate for the Union. I’ve seen him kill a man simply because he still wore his union blues.”

Arabella frowned and looked to Bart.

“That reason only? I had heard he only killed those that crossed him,” Arabella said. She was almost insulted by the accusation. Bart shrugged and gave a wry smile. One of his dimple popped.

“He fought in the war. He crossed him.”

“Why does he hate northerners so much?” she asked.

“Why does any reb hate the North?” Bart shrugged. “Don’t know where he’s from, but the south is the south, and lot of those men, they haven’t gotten over the loss of the war yet. William there. He fought for Virginia. Couldn’t stomach living under the Lincoln’s rule. So he came out here. No rules. No government.”

 “Matthew,” she said. “He died at Antietam.”

“Sweetheart?”

“Brother,” she smiled sadly. “My fiancé, Thaddeus, he was in school. He purchased a reprieve.”

“Your brother didn’t?” he asked. She shook her head.

“He did not believe money should save some men’s lives and not others,” she said fondly. “He even refused a commission. Signed on as an enlisted man.”

“Good man,” Bart said. “Not that uh… not that your fiancé isn’t.”

She nodded and looked toward Archie. He was walking away from the group and toward the other side of the street.

“I have a girl,” he smiled. “Constance. She works in her daddy’s shop in Sante Fe. Don’t have the money just yet but he said if I can get the money that he’ll let her marry me. And she said she’ll wait,” his grin widened. “When I get my cut for bringing you back safely I’ll have enough.”

She smiled over at him.

“I am glad I am able to help bring you together in my own small way.”

It was mostly a joke, but his face turned serious.

“Oh yes, Miss DuPont. I’ll have you to thank for sure.”

“Bart!” Archie called. “Bring her here!”

They crossed the street toward Archie, standing before an open door, the face of an old woman staring out.

“Forgive my manners,” Archie said. Despite his missing teeth, the little lisp only seemed to break out through his speech occasionally. “I don’t wish to shout your name too loudly. The posters have not yet reached Cadiz and most here are Spanish, but you can never be too careful.”

“All is forgiven,” she smiled. She looked over her shoulder and down the road.

“This is Mrs. Brookside.  She hails from New York City. A dress maker. I believe the style of dresses is something you will be quite pleased with, though I know little of upper class Rhode Island societal fashion.”

He grinned and shrugged.

“If you would like to pick out something. I am sure you do not wish to continue on that.”

“Mr. Roper, I have no money.”

“I will pay for it. I will keep the bill of sale and have it paid to me when I collect the reward.”

She looked to the woman staring out of the shop door. She did not look pleased to have to open her shop at this point in time, but Arabella stepped in none the less.

“Since you will be receiving recompense, I am sure you will give something extra to Mrs. Brookside for the extra service.”

Archie looked at the old woman and then gave a reluctant nod and a tight, close lipped smile.

She entered the store and looked around the array of dresses. All were of the northern smile. All well made. She wondered how the woman could possibly make any money in a small town like this, when every woman she had seen outside, granted, there were not many, seemed to be dressed in the Spanish style.

“You have a wonderful collection,” she observed as she looked them over. The old woman was coming toward her with a tape measure.

“Thank you,” she said, voice crackling. She picked out a dress quickly, the one she liked best, and was measured quickly. She stepped back outside and Archie stepped back in to pay. Bart brought her across the street to the little hotel. She was given a hot meal and ate in silence with the men of Archie’s posse. When Archie came back, he took a seat across from her.

“It’ll be ready for you tomorrow morning before we leave. She left me a key, and we’re just to step inside, you can change, leave the key, and then we can set off.”

She nodded and thanked him.

“It will be nice to get out of these clothes,” she admitted.

“They don’t look so bad,” Bart offered. He took a bite of his steaming bread. After a quick run to the latrine and she was up in bed.

She got very little sleep. The wind rattled the windows and every little creak was Frank creeping up the stairs to take her back. She was certain he would come. She waited for hours to hear some of the men raise an alarm. She waited for gun shots. She heard nothing until morning. She got maybe four hours of sleep total, and when her door opened and Archie crept into her room to wake her, she lamented her inability to sleep.

She nearly fell asleep getting into her new dress. She was not even embarrassed when she had Archie tie up her new corset. She felt no irrational sentimentality when she parted with her favorite purple dress.

She got on the horse behind Archie and they began travelling through the darkness. The air was already beginning to grow warm, but as they got closer to the water, the wind turned cooler.

 Even as they approached the water she was sure Frank would should up. There would be a shootout and she would end up on his horse again, being driven back deep into the dessert and into captivity. When they began to ride their horses into the running water, she looked behind them. But there were no horses on the bank. No pair of blue eyes staring back at her.

She lifted up her skirt as the horse sunk deeper into the water and kept a firm grip on Archie’s middle. She knew full well she received a few lecherous glances from the men around her, but as they horse sunk into the water, her drawers no longer within in sight.

“Would of thought they’d do something last night,” Archie told his brother. He turned his horse and looked back across the river. “I don’t like it.”

“He’s a slippery bastard,” William said. “Won’t feel safe till she’s gone and I have the money in my hand.”

“We should eat,” Bart said. “The lady will be hungry.”

“The lady complains less than you do, boy,” the red bearded man she had come to know by Johnse said. Bart’s face flushed red indignantly.

“We will ride another hour. I want to be up to the ridge before we stop,” Archie said. “If they are around, I don’t want them to catch up to see which way we’re going.”

“They’re around,” William said. His sniffled hard though his narrow, pointed nose. “No man walks away from two thousand dollars.”

Johnse nodded and spit into the earth. Some saliva lingered in his beard.                 

“Want a drink? A quick bite?” Archie asked  her. She shook her head and looked back across the river. She looked at the trees. Her eyes lingered on the bushes. She found no one hiding behind them. They pushed on and she pressed her face to Archie’s back. They moved at a slow enough pace that after a few minutes of resting her eyes, she was able to fall into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Charles Brewster lay on his stomach to north east, binoculars pressed to his eyes. He stared out at the group across the Rio Grande. The girl was easy to spot, on the back of Roper’s horse, dressed in a new dress and a hat on her head protecting herself from the heat.

Naiche joined him to his right. He crawled silently beside him, resting his rifle down beside him and motioned for the binoculars. Brewster handed it to the red man and he examined those across the river.

He spoke softly, despite the distance, his voice calm and measured. Brewster had spent plenty of time amongst Apache women, but he knew very little of their tongue. Still, he gathered the gist of the what the scout was telling him.

“Ten horses,” Brewster mangled the words, but the brow that edged across the Apache’s broad, flat features suggested comprehension. “They stole our woman.”

He pointed to his chest.

“Fifteen horses.”

“Too much,” Brewster disagreed.

“Ten men,” Naiche said. “All armed.”

“Ten horses. Five rifles,” he spoke the word rifle in English but tapped the gun. He had known Naiche for some years now. He was a tough negotiator but fair and once he committed, he would always keep his word. He also spoke very little English and would know nothing of a two thousand dollar reward for some white woman. Frank certainly wouldn’t like having to pay for ten horses and five rifles, but to do what must be done they needed numbers and no one could be trusted with the knowledge of the girl’s worth. John Canton and Blackjack were Frank’s best friends. Brewster had served Georgia during the war. They were the only three in the west that would put Frank’s interests above their own desire for such a reward. The Apache stared across the river and examined the men.    

“Deal.”

He spoke it in English and held up a hand. They shook, still on their stomachs, and he surrendered the binoculars. He slowly crept backward, ducking down below the dip in the hill before getting to his feet. Brewster remained on his stomach until the party across the river disappeared from sight. He waited another ten minutes, mindful they Archie, a long time member of the United States military, might think to send back a scout.

Once he felt safe he took his horse and crossed the river. A scout in the war, it was fairly easy for him to keep track of the group, even as far back as he was. Half of it was predictability, half of it was the signs they left behind.

He stopped for lunch when they did and then moved for higher ground. He knew the land well. It was one of the reasons Frank trusted him. That, and both his convenience and loyalty, but Brewster liked to think it was Frank’s confidence in his competence.

Naiche found him easily enough. The group made a small camp by a watering hole. It was a good enough spot. No place in the mountains was particularly safe for a troop to make camp when they were expecting visitors, but Archie had his men scout the area, make rounds, but they did not know the land. Not like Brewster, and certainly not like Naiche.

The Apache crouched down on the ridge, looking through cover at the group below. He squinted, his long dark hair draped over his shoulders, the red scarf wrapped around his forehead tightly. He wore breechcloth and leggings, but a white cotton shirt and a black vest up top. Resting atop it was the blue coat with yellow facing… a cavalry uniform with a smatter of medals on the chest. A find trophy for any warrior. He rested the rifle over his thighs.

“Bodaway is prepared,” Naiche told him.

“Nightfall,” Brewster said. He pressed his palms together and crooked his neck. He rested his cheek on the back of his hand. “When they sleep.”

 Naiche nodded.

“The girl is very pretty,” he said. He touched his hair. Brewster nodded in agreement, thinking he was just making conversation. The apache extended his tomahawk toward him. The tomahawk Brewster had coveted since the first time he laid eyes on it.

Beautiful carved handle. Bison skin coated it in sections, beautiful bead work winding its way up the side. The blade was magnificent, sharp and clopping. The devastation it could to a man’s body. Brewster gazed at it longingly.

“For the girl,” he said and Brewster’s eyes darted up.

“I can’t give you that one,” Brewster spoke in English. “But I can find plenty of pretty white girls.”

Naiche looked down the ridge again. He shook his head and reached into his bag. He retrieved his knife with the holster, beautifully beaded, smooth bone handle.

“She’s not mine,” Brewster said reluctantly. It would be so very easy to double cross Frank. He was some miles behind, ready to be called when needed, but if no word was sent to him, it would be easy to sell the girl and make off with the tomahawk and blade. But Brewster took great pride in belonging to Friendly Frank Lawson’s posse. He wasn’t ready to surrender his place just yet.

“I can get you another girl,” Brewster said in English again. Naiche shook his head and place the blade and tomahawk back. Brewster cursed under his breath. Brewster sighed and got to his feet.

“I have to go get Frank. If they move, follow them. If I don’t return, don’t let them leave the mountains. I’ll make sure you get your payment.”

Naiche nodded in comprehension and Brewster began to make his leave. He paused and turned back to Naiche.

“Don’t touch her,” he said. Naiche nodded and began sharpening the blade he had offered as payment. He retrieved his horse and made his way down the hill and toward Frank’s location.

* * *

 The attack started after they all fell asleep. Had it not been for an over excited youth, the Apache would have slipped into the camp unseen and unheard, slit the throats of the sleeping white men, and made off with the white woman. Frank would have gotten his girl back, and the Apache would have received their payment all but immediately, but instead, the youth moved too quickly. His feet were too loud. A man awoke and let out a shriek. And it only fed into the ensuing chaos.

William yelled out the alarm. Savages were attacking. They needed no real reason to attack a group of white men in their land, but no doubt the fine weapons they had, the horses, and the beautiful young woman had something to do with it. Still, when Archie jumped to his feet and retrieved his rifle and gun, his first thought was that Frank Lawson was behind it. The man had proven he cared very little for the color of one’s skin or the level of their cultural evolution. They could be niggers. They could be savages. Frank did not seem to care. Archie would not put it past him to employ the use of a savage.

He looked to his brother and found him shoving Arabella behind a bush. He retrieved his weapon and headed into the fray. Archie turned his attention to the fight.

Luckily, the alarm gave them the time they needed. He shot one savage, killing him immediately. The next came upon him too quickly. He swung the rifle, hitting him in the chin with the butt of the gun. His head flung backward, tearing an artery in his neck. He fell to bleed to death internally.

Archie moved forward, drawing his dagger from his boot. He had always preferred hand to hand combat. He felt more in control. He never enjoyed killing. Even to this day, after he had killed so many in the war, he never found joy in it. It was a necessary evil. Something you did to survive, whether you did it for your country or you did it for coin. Even savages, he did not _enjoy_ killing. There was no twisted satisfaction with killing one with his own hands. But up close and personal, he was not dependent on a man’s aim. If he was bested, it was simply because he was not good enough.

He took a hit from a war club in his arm and he stumbled back. He sunk the blade into his neck.  He ripped it out and moved onward. He looked toward the bush to find the girl gone.

“Where’s the girl!” he shouted.  He found William with a savage on top of him. A rifle was pressed to his neck. In the moonlight, his face was turning purple. He moved toward his friend, but a violent shriek erupted to his left.

He whirled in time to catch the wrist of that held the savages blade. He fought him off, his muscles already beginning to wane. It was what so many people did not understand. How fast you tired in combat. He looked to his right. William was still struggling with the savage. His legs were kicking.

“Get William!” he screamed as he struggled with the savage before him. He brought up his knee. He caught him between the legs. The savage went out and Archie swung the rifle. He hit him on the top of the head. The man fell and he got to his knees, straddling the savage. He brought the fun down three more times. He stood up, leaving the man’s face a garbled mess.

The savage had left William. He stared up blankly and purple faced at the large moon staring down at the little battle below. Archie cursed softly and looked for his brother. He could not find him and his heart rate accelerated. He heard the savages yelling to one another. They began to disappear into the surrounding mountains, gone as fast as they had arrived.

“Bart!” he screamed. He did not even look to see if more savages were approaching. He did not care. “Bartholomew! Barty!”

His voice cracked and his eyes watered in panic. They were as wide and bright as the moon that loomed above them.

“Bart,” he whispered, looking around.

“Where’s the girl?” Johnse asked.

“Will’s dead!” Ted called.

“Bart!” Archie screeched.

“Archie,” Johnse said. His voice was grave. Archie turned. His face was white. His stomach dropped and bile rose in his throat.

“Bart,” he whispered. He hurried toward Johnse and fell to his knees by his brother. The boy had survived Antietam, only to be slaughtered by savages in the mountains of New Mexico.

His brother stared up at him. His eyes were the size of plates. Blood bubbled up from his mouth, pouring down his cheeks. He was choking on it. Archie’s lower lip trembled and tears spilled down his cheeks. He patted his brother’s cheeks. His brother lingered. The blood leaving his mouth bubbled as he tried to breath. Archie looked down at the dagger still lodged in his ribcage. Blood was seeping through a hole in his sternum. Archie grabbed the bone handle.

“I love you,” Archie told his brother. “I love you.”

Bart stared up. He took the knife and sunk the blade into his brother’s temple. The light left his brother’s eyes and the bubbling stopped.

“The girl, Archie,” Ted said gently.

Archie remained knelt at his brother’s body. He stared off to his left. He heard nothing. There was perfect silence. He remained like that a long while.

“The girl,” he croaked. “Find her. He’ll come for her.”

“Archie?”

Archie swayed. His eye fluttered but did not close.

“I’m going to skin him alive,” he murmured.

“Who?” Johnse asked.

Archie licked his upper lip. This was his fault and he was going to die. He was going to die and he was going suffer. And if he received even the slightest inclination that Frank had an ouch of feeling for the girl other than greed or lust, then the reward be damned, he’d skin her alive too.

* * *

Arabella awoke to the sound of screaming and shrieking.

“Savages!” wrung out into the air. Instinct took hold quickly. Bart came crawling toward her with wide eyes and pushed her toward a bush. He told her to hide and lifted his gun to find a target.

Arabella ran. She crawled up a hill, scrambled through the rocky side of the sloping earth, and nearly fell down the other side. She heard nothing. She saw nothing. When she finally slowed she could not remember a single step of her escape.

Her lungs burned and she sped onward. She fought through the pain. She ignored the blood that was seeping from her palms. She did not even feel the scraped skin. Already, the beautiful new dress was in worse state than her abandoned purple dress back at Cadiz. She wiped her palms on the skirt.

She walked into the darkness. Away from the fire, the air was downright cold. She shivered, her teeth chattering. She dare not thin what might happen to her if she were taken by savages.

She heard a movement to her right. Her eyes widened.

_Frank. Please, be Frank._

She paused, listening intently.

“Roper,” she whispered to herself. “Please be Roper.”

But there was nothing. No one else came. She continued to walk. The sky was clear. The moon helped light her way.

She must have walked for hours. She had no idea where she was going. She had no idea where she was. She had no idea how she was going to get out of this one.

By the time the sun rose she was creeping down a little rise in the earth. She stumbled and slipped. Her hands hit the ground hard. Pain radiated through her palms as they were scraped once again.

She sat on the hard earth with a frown. Rocks and sand slid down around her but she remained to her spot. She stared at her palms. She looked up at the sky. She squinted into the sun as she tried to think her away out of her current dilemma.

It was supposed to be a simple trip through the west. She was supposed to get married, have children, take care of her home. Now she sat in the mountains of New Mexico, attacked by Indians, hunted by outlaws pursued by mercenaries. Her palms were scraped raw. Her dress was stained with dirt and blood.

“Lord, have mercy,” she prayed. She gazed up at the sky. “Please. Have mercy on me.”

She pushed herself up. Her throat burned and she was beginning to get hungry. Her head hurt. Her lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with her.

_Get through this and you will be in Thaddeus’ arms. You have to be strong for him._

She began to stumble down the hill once more. Bent knees, hand behind her and finger tips grazing the earth. She continued on an hour or so more before her prayers were answered. She stepped through a clearing and found a beautiful little house resting in a little clearing. Her lips parted and her heart pounded. She lifted her face to sky and said a little thank you. A smile brushed across her lips.

A woman stepped from the front door. Dressed in a simple grey dress and a bonnet on her head, she set about shaking out a thick wool blanket. A child ran past her and she called to him. He waved his hand as he disappeared into the woods with a little bucket.

Arabella stepped toward them. Her smile widened and her eyes, bloodshot and glassy, blinked rapidly. Her eyes wetted, but no tears fell. The woman looked up. A startled expression came to her face. She stepped back, holding the blanket closer to herself.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” the woman called. “Paul! Paul!”

The woman dropped the blanket and hurried toward her. A beaded man wearing a white shirt half tucked into pants held up by one fastened suspender came running from the house with a rifle in his hands.

“Sweet child,” the woman breathed. She wrapped her arms around Arabella and began to usher into the house. Paul looked past her, gun still held firmly in his hands. He scanned the tree line alertly. She was brought into the house and set down at the kitchen table. Two more children stared at her with wide eyes.

A cup of hot coffee was put in front of her. She reached for it slowly. Suddenly her palms did not ache, her eyes did not burn and as Paul and his wife began asking hurried questions about Indians, outlaws, and how many may still be out there, a calm, little smile came to her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Mainly plot progression in this one. It is all very much needed for the story to progress. I hope you still enjoyed it despite there being no interection between Arabella and Frank. 
> 
> There is more to Archie than meets the eye. Keep that in mind. Sympathize with him as you wish, but know he’s not a hero.
> 
> Lastly, I don’t start writing a story until I have an ending. I also won’t start another story until one is finished. That being said, I want to start outlining the next story. It can take me a few weeks so I wish to get started. HOWEVER, (and getting to the point here, I promise) I am torn between two very different plot lines. If you care enough, and if you think you might wish to read my next stories, I was curious to see what reader interest might be (though I maintain the right to go where my muse takes me. I want to please the readers, but if I’m not inspired it won’t matter how hard I try).
> 
> So…
> 
> Option A: A Yankee girl falls in love with her brother’s friend and college classmate, a southerner (What can I say I love that match up). The civil war breaks out and their engagement is broken when it is discovered he has earned the rank of Colonel in the Confederate Army. Her brother is imprisoned in Libby Prison. She is sent to the south to intercede with her ex-fiancé on her brother’s behalf, only to learn he has not yet given up on her, despite their vast political differences, and will stoop to all manner of levels to make her his.
> 
> Option B: There are a number of scenarios I am considering, so I cannot give you an exact synopsis, however, it will follow a white woman kidnapped by Indians (I’ve not yet decided on a tribe. There are a number I like for the story. It will also change the exact details of the plot).
> 
> So if you care let me know. If you don’t then never mind.
> 
> Thanks once again for the number of reviews. It really inspires me. I appreciate it immensely.


	8. 8

8

Arabella finished her hot cup of coffee and as the last of the bitter, steaming liquid slid from the cup and passed through her lips, so did the last of the fleeting sense of peace that had momentarily settled over her. The husband, Paul, stood in the corner of the kitchen, strong arms crossed her a broad chest. A few times as Arabella finished her hotcakes and coffee, he brought up a hand to rub his thick, black beard. His eyes were too large for his face and he had a strange, bulbous looking nose. Coupled with a very small mouth, hidden underneath his bushy beard, he had a strange appearance. Somehow, all put together, he was not an entirely unattractive man.

His wife, Ruth, was a pretty woman. She had a grey hue to her, but her eyes were bright blue and attentive. Her hair was graying, but hints of a beautiful blonde shade could still be seen, tucked neatly behind her pretty pink bonnet. The one ounce of color on her body. Their children they had ordered locked on the other side of the house, away from the dirty and bleeding stranger.

Arabella placed the chipped mug down on the table and turned her palms upward. Her left hand had a particularly nasty gash in it. She did not feel it until that very moment, but she swallowed down the pain. Ruth appeared with a bucket of water and a rag. Gently, she took Arabella’s hands and began to dab at the skin gently. It stung and throbbed as the aging woman began digging out tiny rocks and bits of dirt, but Arabella knew full well it would be worth it in the long run.

“I need to get to a town,” Arabella finally spoke. It was the first time she had spoken since they brought her into the house. They had waited for her to eat and drink. The only question they pressed was whether she was injured and if she was being pursued. She had looked at them and shook her head slowly. Her brain had been working too slowly. “They will come for me soon.”

“Savages?” Paul asked. Arabella looked from the old woman digging at the scratches on her skin to the fully bearded man.

“Yes…” she said. “But… They weren’t looking for me. A group of criminals had me. They will come to find me.”

“Why are criminals looking for you,” he asked. She swallowed.

“I was taken by an outlaw,” she said. “He planned to ransom me,” she lied. “A reward was put out by my parents. They grabbed me and then Indians attacked our camp. They will come looking for me.”

In truth, she had no idea if they would keep pursuing her. She was sure they would. Her parents had put out a fine price for her, if it was true they had. The speed in which the posters were printed and posted suggested it might not have been the case. They would pay it. Of that she had no doubt. Her mother had wept when she left. Even her father, her lovable, stone faced and grim father, had shed more than a tear at her departure. But Arabella was positive that her dear cousin Christopher had set about having those posters made the moment they left town, so great was his honor and feeling of responsibility.

“He will come for me,” she said urgently.

“He?” Paul asked sharply. She looked to him.

“The outlaw. You must bring me to town now. You must. He… his friends, the mercenaries, even the Indians, I know not, but as long as I am here, I fear that I put you all in danger.”

She suddenly felt guilty for coming here. What little choice she had did not counter into her thinking. That she might have died of exposure, starved to death, had a terrible fall, or fallen victim to any number of the groups searching for her had she not found this little haven, had little weight in her mind in that moment. Foolishly, and easily enough, now safe inside a home with food, coffee and protection, she felt she should have sacrificed her own welling-being in favor of theirs.

“Serpent’s Hallow is just four miles North West. It’ll take about five hours… with the cart and the Ox,” he told Arabella. He looked to his wife who was no longer digging into Arabella’s palms. “I’ll turn right ‘round. Sleep at Jim’s, be back for breakfast.”

 Ruth gave a single nod and stood.

“Let the girl sleep a short while,” she said. Arabella began to shake her head but Paul was already disagreeing.

“This girl says she needs to go. She needs to go. I want to be home tomorrow as soon as possible. She walked here. She can be tracked here. The farther away she is, the better.”

His speech was gruff and blunt, but was so honest, so true, Arabella was not in the slightest offended by it.

“Ready the cart and Ox and I’ll put together some food for you both,” she said kindly. Arabella felt her eyes try to close. There was an added weight to her eye lids. She fought it and raised the mug, waiting for the last, slow moving drip as it slid down the side of the cup. Ruth smiled and came over with the tin pot, pouring another cupful for her. Arabella thanked her softly and added a tiny bit of sugar. She could only imagine how difficult it was for these people to obtain the expensive treat. She sucked down the bitter liquid, burning her throat as she did.

Her heart pounded as she waited. Her eyes lost focus and she stared off into space. She wondered where Frank might be. She wondered why he had not yet come. For a brief moment she wondered if he even would. She quickly discarded the thought. Of course he would.

_He got what he wanted. He’s probably moving on to the next girl he shouldn’t have._

She pinched her lips together and looked out the open window. She let the breeze brush her hair to the side.

_He’ll come._

“Darling?”

She jumped. Her eyes popped open. She saw Ruth staring over her shoulder at her.

“What did you say, darling?”

“Nothing,” she murmured. “Nothing.”  

Paul returned and Ruth made them a fine lunch and supper. She was put on a wagon and within an hour of her arrival she was rattling toward Serpent’s Hallow and, hopefully, a sheriff that would bring her to safety and, God willing, into Thaddeus’ arms.

-

They arrived at Serpent’s Hallow, as Paul had said, about five and a half hours after they set off. As the cart rattled through the windy, narrow, rocky trail that split through the hills like a coiling serpent, Arabella fell in and out of sleep. Her heavy eyes would fall shut and sleep would creep up on her. She’d lose herself in a haze of unconsciousness. She would hear Indians screeching, men shouting, guns firing. Then she could see a piercing blue gaze through the smoke, dark, angry, and obsessive.

A jolt of the wagon and she would jerk awake. She would fight sleep again as best she could. All too soon, it was creeping back up on her and she was once again gazing into those intense blue eyes.

Serpent’s Hallow was a small town nestled in a tiny clearing. It was larger, population wise, than Tularosa, but pushed together, nestled tightly. There were little fenced in areas of chickens, hogs, and cows. There were stables, two wells, a tanner, a tailor, a butcher, a market, a convenient store, and more. She had wondered initially, how a little town nestled in the foothills could possibly be afforded a sheriff. If anything, he would be far from a force to be feared. But now she took comfort that he might very well be a man that could protect her and shield her until she was returned to her family. She only hoped that when she did see her family, Thaddeus, that he understood.

Paul pulled the car up to a small wooden building. It rested between the butcher and a smoke house. The windows were open, letting in the cool air and gentle breeze.  The sun still hung high in the air, but it was beginning to dip down behind a towering hill.

Arabella hopped down from the car herself. She received curious glances on the street. Confused faces looked over her dirty dress, the ribbed fabric, the stains of blood that her scraped palms had left behind. She did her best to ignore them and waited her chin lifted high. She could not help but think that in the care of Friendly Frank Lawson, she would not have come to such a state of disarray. Her status pleased him too much. He would want the world to know.

Paul hitched up the cart, he would not be staying long, and opened the door for her. She stepped through it and immediately found the sheriff. He leaned back at his desk with a large mustache on his face and a gold badge on his chest. His coat was removed, one suspender twisted at his right shoulder, and he wrote something with a flourish. There was a man at the bars in the only cell, hands outstretched, his eyes glued to the sheriff.

“It wasn’t no chicken theft,” the man pleaded. “The woman gave me her chicken ‘cause I helped fix the wagon wheel.”

“Then explain her cries for help,” the sheriff asked. He had a deep, smooth voice. He sounded like a man born and raised in the west.

“She was angry her husband found out is all. Come on, Freddy. You know me.”

“Be silent, Danny. You only have three days to go. I’m not even holding you for a judge.”

The man pouted, pulled away from the bars, glanced at her, and then moved over to sit sullenly on the hard wooden bench that doubled for a bed. The sheriff finished his writing, stood, and folded his hands in front of himself. His smile was close lipped and tight. Crow’s feet creased deeply beside his eyes and his eyes twinkled kindly. His eyes found her clothing and lost their lightness. Instead, the tight smile and slipped and his brow creased.

“Good lord. What has befallen you, Madam, and what cur might I lock up for it?” he asked, coming toward her. He outstretched a hand and touched her elbow kindly and familiarly.

“Best speak out of ear shot,” Paul said. He jerked a chin toward the prisoner. She looked over to the curious young man and then to the sheriff.

“It is probably best,” she told him. He nodded.

“Of course,” the sheriff responded. “Billy!”

A young man came out from the back.

“Watch this one,” he pointed to the prisoner. “This way good sir, madam.”

He held out his hand and lead her down a back hallway to another interior office.

“Please, allow me to introduce myself,” he said as they entered a little room. It had a desk, a chair, and nothing else. “My name is Frederick Yates. I am the sheriff, obviously.”

He gave a little smile. It then softened once more.

“Now please, tell me what happened so I might help you.”

“I do not think the posters have reached you yet,” she began before Paul could. The bearded man seemed surprised. “But I was kidnapped just recently by an outlaw. A reward has been put up for my safe return. It is in the amount of two thousand dollars.”

The sheriff’s eyebrows lifted.

“I have reason to believe I am still being pursued. By him… by mercenaries. We were… Indians attacked.”

 “Indeed,” he said. “And where is it you need to get to?”

“Alliston,” she answered.

“Well, we won’t be getting there tonight. I will see you there safely. Of that you have my word. Will the gentleman be after the reward?” he asked, looking to Paul. 

“No. No, sir. God gave me all I want. My wife and my children. Happy and healthy.”

“Good man,” the sheriff smiled.

“And if you can vow her safety sir, I’d best be setting off home.”

“If the lady feels comfortable. I shall take custody of her,” he replied and looked to Arabella. “My home is just a five minute walk. My wife shall have something hot ready. By five. A hot meal, a bath and a warm bed, and we will make arrangements to bring you safely home.”

Arabella smiled. She felt a wave of safety overtake her. Like this nightmare was finally, _finally,_ over.  

 She said goodbye to Paul. Thanked him sincerely and earnestly. Begged him to thank his wife for her once more. He did, wished her the best of luck and promised to add her to their nightly prayers, and rattled off into the dying light. She sheriff left the young man, Billy, in charge. They spoke briefly inside. Billy nodded frantically, eyes alert, as Yates whispered to him. Yates finally smiled, clapped his shoulders, and then brought Arabella the short walk to his home.

He asked her a few more questions, primarily on the short walk.

“May I ask which outlaw it was that had taken you captive?” he asked as they stepped from the jail. He spoke softly, keeping his voice from lifting too high. They had enough attention, with the state of her clothing. She swallowed and thought a moment. Strangely enough, she felt odd betraying his name. She felt as though it was just that: a betrayal. Yet every poster printed had his name and description. It would be no betrayal.

“Frank Lawson,” she murmured. She wouldn’t give his real name. Anderson. His eyebrows lifted further.

“Friendly Frank, you say. Odd. He’s not known for taking hostages, nor for attacking women.”

“He did not attack me,” she clarified quickly. There was the tiniest tilt to Yates’ head. “This was from Indians. And mercenaries. The Indians attacked the mercenaries.”

He contemplated it silently.

As promised, she received a hot meal, a warm bath, and a clean bed. They had two young children, both put down for bed right after dinner, and the house was quiet. Frederick Yates was married to a kind woman, just a few years younger than him, with bright green eyes and fiery red hair. Her face, a smattering of pretty freckles, was pointed and narrow, but she had a quality about her that was immensely pleasing. She spoke softly, but with weight behind her words. She did not press into Arabella’s sudden presence. She asked no questions and made sure she was made comfortable. She had patience and was entirely confident in her husband’s judgment. She also knew that the moment Arabella went up to bed, she would be hearing every detail there as to hear.

She was put into an old bedroom their son once used before he went to California. It was spacious and comfortable and she opened the window before pulling down the fresh, white sheets of the bed. She paused, looked over her shoulder. She had an image of Frank crawling in through that window.

Her face itched. Scratched. Her skin heated. With fluttering eyes she turned and shut the window. She lingered, gazing out at the town. The house was at the edge of town. It had its own little yard. Chickens were fenced in just under her window. She could see the stables in the distance. It was an enterprising little depot. Travelers would rent a horse on one side from one brother at an exorbitant price, move through the pass, and deliver the horse on the other side to the other brother, and get half their fee in return when they passed in their receipt. It nearly ensured the horse would be returned, and it should the horse pass through without being returned, they made their money on the fee.

She looked around at the setting sun and licked her lower lip. She left the window open a crack. She moved back to the bed. She slipped underneath, wearing her sweat stained shift. The bed was heavenly. Cool and clean. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to get the blue eyes to stop staring back at her every time she closed her eyes.           

* * *

Frank leaned against the tree and spit out the rest of the tobacco from his mouth. He had watched the little house for just over an hour and had come to the conclusion that his Arabella was not there. He had hoped against hope she would be, but not simply because he wanted to have her returned to him for purely selfish, physical reasons. He was quite genuinely concerned about her safety. The terrible image of the beautiful young woman, curled up in a ball, rattlesnake venom spreading through her blood stream, slowly sucking the life past her full lips, continually ran its way through his brain. The main road curling its way through the hills was not called Serpent’s Pass simply because of the way it coiled it through the raised land.

He looked to the boy, playing outside since the sun had risen and the mother stepped from the home, making yet another run to and from the well.

“Get your chores done before Papa returns from town, Nathaniel!” she called as she went, a big bucket in her hands. He could smell bacon coming from the house and his eyes fluttered. They opened and his eyes were fixed on the little barn. Chickens clucked, hogs snorted, and cows chewed lazily. His eyes narrowed. He turned his head. Skins, pelts of wolves, foxes, coyotes and cougars, hung by the trough on a string.

He lifted his head, wiped his brow, and spit on more time. With a pat to his horse’s neck he circled along the inside of the tree line. He kept his eyes on the home, mindful of the little boy’s gaze. He stopped on the far side of the barn and broken open the lock. He slid it open about a half foot and forced his face inside. He looked to the far wall, illuminated by the rising sun coming in through the upper windows.  

The dirt floor had the tell tale signs of wagon wheels, but no wagon rest inside. He looked around, a little smile coming to his lips. He slowly shut the door and walked back around the far side.

He continued to walk, keeping his feet silent. The boy sat on the ground with his back to Frank. He had not yet made a move to complete his chores.

“Nathaniel! Come eat your breakfast!”

The little boy got to his feet, just in time for Frank to come up behind him and scoop him up at the waist with one powerful arm.

The boy squealed and kicked. But Frank simply held him to his hip with a strong arm. He hardly reacted to the punches the boy tried to land on his arms. By the time he got in the front door, the mother was half way to exit, eyes wide and worry etched into her motherly face.

Frank shifted the boy, holding him in front of him, in case another young man might round the corner with a rifle in his hands.

“My goodness, ma’am,” he grinned with a tip of his hat. “That smells damn good.”

He stepped into the house and the woman stared. She swallowed thickly and her hands quivered.

“Please,” she whispered. She raised her hands. “Please.”

Frank looked down the hall as he heard movement. He was familiar with this reaction. He had received it from men and women alike on many an occasion. Paralyzed with fear, there was often little else they could think to say.

“How many you got here in this house?” he asked.

“We…” she breathed and a pink tongue darted out to wet her tongue. Frank’s eyebrows rose. “My husband will… will return here soon.”

“Wonderful,” he replied. “I want to talk to him. Now how many are in the house right now and how many guns you got?”

She blinked, looking to her son. Her lips quivered. She looked down the hall. She remind him of a fish.            

“It’s a real simple question,” he said. “‘N the sooner you tell me, the sooner we eat, ‘n let me tell you, I’m so hungry, I could eat one o’ them cows you got out there all my own.”

“I have two girls, two boys.”

“Countin’ this one?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Guns?”         

“The shotgun by the door,” she answered. He turned his head and found it leaning up in the corner. “And the pistol in the closet.”

He nodded and backed up. He dropped the boy when his hand closed around the barrel of the shotgun. He motioned to her with it and she flinched.

“Show me,” he ordered. He looked into each room as they walked. She opened the door and he nudged her out of the way. It was an old pistol. Maybe ten, fifteen years, but he tucked it into his belt. “Call the children to eat, now Ma’am. I’m mighty hungry.”

She did and he followed her into the kitchen. He sat down at the head of the table where a plate was set for her absent husband. He watched the children pile in and snapped his fingers to the boy, Nathaniel.

“Sit here, boy,” he ordered.

“That’s… that’s Hester’s seat.”

The boy’s cheeks were flushed and wet. Frank leaned in with a smile.

“I want you to sit there,” he answered. He pushed the seat of the chair back with his boot. The boy looked to his mother and then back. He took the seat, shoulders hunched, face down.

Frank then looked to the oldest daughter. She was around fifteen, perhaps sixteen, with a full bosom and bright skin. Only the smattering of red bumps along her chin distracted from what would one day be a beautiful woman.     

“My, well good mornin’ to you, beautiful,” he said kindly. The girl looked down, her shoulders hunched. She clutched a rosary in her hands tightly. He looked to the mother. “I aint gon’ touch her, ma’am. God as my witness. She has nothin’ to fear from me. Now you go on out ‘n fetch the food. I’ll stay here with the young’ns.”

She hesitated.

“I aint gone hurt em!” he called happily. “Now git.”

The woman ducked back into the kitchen. He looked at the children. Nathaniel, nine most likely. The young woman, who he learned was Hester. A tiny child of four, named Timmy, and another little girl, five, named Betsy.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked the four year old. He rested his arm on the table and leaned forward. He reached into his pocket with the other hand. He pulled out a sweet. “Answer me honest, ‘n you get this.”

The little boy, too young to be properly frightened, smiled with bright eyes.

“Was there a Yankee girl in here last night?” he asked softly.

“Timmy don’t –” the nine year old began but the boy was already nodding.

“Papa took her away.”

Frank’s eyes shone brightly with triumph. So she was safe. That had been the pressing matter. He had very little doubts that he would  find her again, as long as she was well. He tried to think of the closest towns. He did not know the area well.

“Where did your papa bring her?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” he answered. He stared greedily at the sweet. “He went that way.”

“ _Timmy_ ,” Nathaniel hissed.

“Good boy,” Frank smiled and patted his cheek. He surrendered the sweet and the boy sucked on it happily.

He leaned back in his chair as the wife reentered the room. She began bringing in trays of steaming food. The smell was heavenly and Frank’s stomach growled angrily.

“Can I have your name, ma’am? I don’t know what to call you.”

“Ruth,” she answered as she placed down the tray. She did well to keep herself composed for her children. “Elliston.”

“Well, Mrs. Elliston, your son here is a good boy. Good boy,” he said. She began to dish out food to the children. She got to him last. “He told me somethin’. Somethin’ that I was mighty curious about.”

“And what was that, sir?” she asked. She kept her eyes averted as she spooned out the sausage. Frank stared longingly.

“That you had a Yankee girl here last night,” he answered. The woman’s hand froze and he knew his suspicions were true. The boy had not lied to get his greedy paws on a piece of candy. “I wan’ know where she might be now.”

“I do not know,” she answered softly. Frank looked to his right. He stared at a knot in one of the wooden panels.

“Now I know that aint true,” he muttered, shaking his head angrily. “You got’ta understand, Mrs. Elliston. This is my girl. I aint gon’ hurt her. You don’t have a reason to fear on that account.”

“I… I do not know,” she said. He nodded again and picked up his fork. He was the only one that began to eat. Fear kept the other stomachs tempered.

“Your husband, he comin’ soon?” he asked. If he was going to return soon, he had no reason to threaten the ladies.

“Any minute sir,” she replied. He gave a nod.

“Sit down,” he said, shoveling a bite of sausage into his mouth. She hesitated. He paused. His jaw froze. His eyes rolled up angrily. “Sit.”

She obeyed. Slowly.

“This is damn good, Mrs. Elliston.”

“Thank you,” she answered. He ate until his plate was empty. Timmy picked at his food, gazing at Frank thoughtfully. Hester was crying softly. He heard a ruckus outside. A call to a wife.

“Ah.”

Frank smiled.

“Here he is.”

He looked at his empty plate but his stomach still grumbled. He grabbed his fork, reached out, and jabbed his fork into Nathaniel’s untouched hot cake.

* * *

Paul hopped off the cart and made sure that the ox was secure. Hunger bit at him and he could already smell his wife’s cooking. He moved in through the front door. He removed his hat and let out a deep sigh.

“Ruth!” he called. “I’m back.”

He frowned when he heard no response. He moved in through the kitchen. He froze as he entered the dining room.

"Mornin', sir," a stranger grinned from the head of be table. He had a six shooter out on the table, resting harmlessly. “Put your gun down.”

Paul looked over his children.

The settler’s blood ran cold in his veins and he touched his pistol.

“I’m a fast draw,” the outlaw said. His eyes were a blue unlike any color Paul had ever seen before. Bright and icy. Incredibly cold. Paul removed the gun from his hip and tossed it to the corner. Blue eyes followed it and he nodded slowly.

The outlaw shoved another fork full of sausage into his mouth and chewed greedily; grease coated his chapped lips. The knife he held in his left hand gleamed in the sunlight. It caught Paul's attention. He looked to his wife, then his youngest son, ceated to the stranger’s left. A single jerk of his hand and the blade could be in his child's throat. 

"What do you want?" Paul asked stiffly. His voice was hoarse and low. The blue eyed man leaned forward, examined his youngest son’s plate, and jabbed his for into a hot cake. He plopped it right down on his own plate and began cutting into it. He was still chewing the hearty bite of sausage.

"I was thinkin," the man said as he swallowed the bite of sausage. He paused to put a healthy piece of the cake into his mouth. He chewed a few moments with a furrowed brow. "Why would a man like you go into town and not bring his life stock?"

He raised his eyebrows. 

"'N so I asked young Mr. Timothy here, mighty fine lad, and he told me you was brining a Yankee girl to the sheriff. Thing be, she won't tell me what town. Please, goddamn am I bein' rude. My momma would whoop me if she saw this now. Sit down sir. This is your home."

Paul sat down stiffly. He glanced to his daughter, his oldest, nearly a woman now, and felt a sinking in his stomach as she silently said he rosary over her untouched potatoes. 

"See that," he pointed to Hester. "That I didn't do. I told her ‘n I told your beautiful wife here, I aint here to lay a finger on 'em. God be my judge, I won't touch em."

Paul nodded, but he did not fully believe him. 

"See I got a girl," he continued and spooned some of his son’s potatoes into his plate. "Pretty little thing. A Yankee. Used to the finest o’ things."

He shoved a potato, hot and steaming into his mouth. His eyebrows rose and he breathed in deeply through his opened mouth, potato steaming on his tongue. 

"'N I would never be untrue to my lady. Never in my life. But goddamn, I cannot seem to find her. Wily little thing, outrunning Injuns and military trackers alike. I tell you, if all them yanks are like her, it's no goddamn wonder we lost that war." 

He swallowed the last of the potatoes and returned to a stab of sausage. He shook his head and groaned. 

"This really is a fine, fine meal, Mrs. Elliston. A fine meal."

"Thank you, sir," his wife whispered with a tremor in her voice. 

"Call me Frank," he said and Paul suddenly knew who it was seated before him. He could hardly believe it. If he did not fear for the life and well being of he and his family, he might have been rather star struck.

"'N what I know is that you found her ‘n I know that you took her to a sheriff. I just need to know what town that be in and what direction it might be and I go on my way, with a mighty hearty thanks for this fine meal and you lot never see me again." 

Frank smiled and looked over at Nathaniel. Hazel eyes wide and freckled cheeks flushed, he looked a mixture of terror and hatred. 

"What a rosy cheeked young boy," Frank said fondly. He leaned over and brushed his blond hair from his face with the blade of his knife. Paul’s heart seized. 

"You ever been in love?" he asked Paul. He looked over to Paul’s wife and grinned sheepishly.

"Course you have."

"I love my wife more than anything, save my children of course,” Paul informed him.

"I never been in love. Well, maybe when I was a boy. Jane Hackey. I was mighty sweet on her. Brought her flowers and she ripped ‘em up and shoved ‘em in my ears, but still, followed her round day in and day out, but that's a young love. No real flesh to it. Well this Yankee," he pointed the blade at Paul. "I reckon this is what love feels like. Got to, yeah? This feelin’. Christ be, maybe only a day or so I've called her mine, but you know these things, don't ye?" 

Paul swallowed. 

"Aw, Christ it ain't love. I know that. But she makes me feel all tore up inside. All knotted up. Somethin’ real special bout this one. Real special and I just can't part with her, you see? So you gon’ tell me where you took my girl? I'm goin crazy here without her."

Paul swallowed thickly. 

"Miss Du - " he looked up at the ceiling. "I only dropped the girl off at the juncture. Where she went after I -"

Frank slammed his fists down on the table. The children began to cry. Hester and Ruth flinched. He looked to Frank and found his face red. A muscle quivered below his eye. 

"Don't -" he said, jabbing the knife at him through the air. "Lie to me. No man is gon’ leave a girl alone at the juncture. And if you did, and you left my girl out there to fend for herself," he let out a gush of air from his lungs and shook his head. "Well I'm gon’ be angry somethin' fierce."

Paul's brain raced. He felt ill. He looked around at his family.

"I ain't gon hurt her," Frank said with exasperation. "I told you, this girl, she's somethin’ special to me. Now, tell me, or I start gettin angry."

He leaned back and trailed his fingers over the pink scarf around his neck. He breathed it in deeply. 

"I won't hurt the ladies. Don't fear on that count. But I don’t take kindly to a man tryin’ to keep me from what’s mine, and sweet, red cheeked little boys grow up to be vengeful sons, n after I kill you, I kill him..." A cool grin came to his lips. "Or maybe I kill him first."

Frank moved with amazing speed and Paul let out a womanish shriek. Frank gripped the boy’s hair and placed the blade of his knife to the boy’s throat. 

"There's an artery right here," he explained softly. The boy was weeping as Frank pressed the point of the blade to a spot on the side of his neck. His wife stood, wide eyes, silent tears pouring down her cheeks. "Sssh sweet boy." He gave Nathaniel a soft kiss to the temple. "This artery right here. Used to aim for it in battle, once we got to fighting with our hands."

He looked at Paul, grin widening. He made a jerk with his wrist and Paul thought he might expel the limited contents of his stomach all over the floor.

“Dig it right in there, he said, miming the ask of stabbing. “You know how fast a person bleeds out when it's severed? Little'n like this... Not long at all."

"Serpent’s Hallow," Paul croaked. "I brought her to Serpent’s Hallow, four miles north east. You take the hard left at the juncture." 

Frank pet the boy’s hair. 

"You lyin’ to me, I come back and kill all y'all.” He blinked. “Understand?"

Paul nodded frantically. Frank suddenly straightened and tossed the knife on the table. It clattered and he sauntered around the table. He look his wife's hand and raised t to his lips. 

"That breakfast, Mrs. Elliston. Mm mm hmm. Best I ever did have."

He lowered her hand gently and walked to Paul. He paused in front of him and dusted off his shoulders.

“If I find out you’re lyin’ to me… I’m coming for yuh. Y’understand?” he asked. He nodded.

“I’m not lying.”

And he wasn’t. God forgive him. Frank beamed and patted his shoulders once more.

“Wonderful! Good day to you all. I will give Miss Arabella your regards.”

Paul closed his eyes and fought off his shame.

Frank tipped his hat and with a confident saunter, a jingle of his spurs and a whistle from his lips, the outlaw walked from the door without another word.

 

 

 

                                                           


	9. 9

Any hope Arabella might have had that Frederick Yates would be as anxious to get her away from his family as Paul had been evaporated the moment she had come downstairs that morning. She had found him seated at the kitchen table, sipping on a steaming cup of coffee and reading the paper. Deborah, his wife, was puttering with breakfast, the smell of eggs and bacon filling the air. Their son, red cheeked and tow headed little George, played happily with a ball of yarn by his father’s feet. There was not an ounce of tension or concern in the air.

“Good morning, dearie,” Deborah called, glancing over her shoulder with beady dark eyes. He looked like an unpleasant woman, but she was far from it. “Sit down. I’ll have something for you to eat.”

She had a pretty southern drawl. Virginian. The daughter of a gentleman farmer. Their family had, amazingly enough, remained loyal to the union. They moved west when the war ended. Her hair was the color of oak. Her eyes dark and small. She had a small, narrow nose and thin lips that always looked like they were pinched together. Despite a collection of rather unfortunate features, when one took the time to really look at her, you could not say she was an unattractive woman.

“Thank you, Mrs. Yates,” Arabella said and took a seat to Frederick’s left.

“Deborah, please,” she smiled and came and placed a cup of coffee before her. Arabella thanked her and brought the cup to her lips.

“When do you think we might begin our journey?” she asked after she took a small sip. The coffee was bitter. They had no cream or sugar in the house. Market day was tomorrow. Frederick suggested they pick some up after church, but Deborah refused. Not on Sunday.

“A day or so,” Frederick answered. She tried to swallow her disappointment. “I cannot work today and I need to make some arrangements before I leave my town and family.”

She nodded in understanding. She wanted to ask more, but would not in front of the child. He was young, but old enough.

Frederick read silently as they ate. Deborah fussed over their only child. Arabella ate silently, each tick of the clock, certain Frank would come sauntering through that door, a lazy, confident smile on his face and an aggressive twinkle in his eye.

“Are you alright, Miss DuPont?”

She looked up in surprise. Deborah was stating at her with those beady eyes. She had a little frown tugging at her lips.

“Yes, yes, I am fine,” she answered. She looked back to the door with a little crinkle in her brow. “Just… frightened.”

Frederick looked at her from the top of his paper. His eyes were narrowed as he observed her. She looked back to her food and Frederick resumed his reading.

“Miss DuPont, my family and I are to attend church. We shall return before noon. If you –”

“Surely the girl will join us, Frederick,” Deborah scolded softly. She pulled the little hat over George’s head.

“Debbie,” Frederick said with a small and gentle smile. His voice was soft and hushed. “Look at her dress.”

“But it’s _Sunday_ ,” Deborah whispered.

“Would you force the girl out in public like that?” he asked. Arabella looked down at herself. It was a shame. The dress was beautiful. The design fashionable and modern. The fabric high quality. Now the dress was ripped, dirty and blood stained. Deborah looked over it herself. Though she lived a simple life now, she recalled her days in upper class Virginian society. She relented and moved to the door, all the while mumbling about Sunday. Frederick looked to her.

“I shall see if the tailor can find something for you on my way home,” he told her. She thanked him kindly. “There are books in the sitting room. If you like, feel free to them.”

She thanked him again and they were off. Frederick hushed his wife as she began to remind him it was Sunday. The door closed and Arabella was left alone.

Her heart was suddenly pounding again. She walked around the house a few minutes. She stopped in the living room, retrieved a book, and read for a half hour or so. She heard voices outside and her heart leapt.

Putting the book down, she moved to the window. She shook her head when she saw a young man and woman walking by, arms linked, laughing happily.

Her eyes raked over the street. She found no blue eyes staring back at her. She pulled the drapes and walked to the back of the house.

Finally, the Yates' returned and she did not feel as vulnerable. She read most of the day, helped Mrs. Yates with some of the hously chores, and went to bed early, absolutely exhausted. 

The next day, Frederick went to work and insisted that Deborah meet with Mrs. Ingram at the edge of town. She was sickly and needed attention. Deborah seemed confused, but collected George and went. Arabella was in no state to go and in truth, she did not wish to. Instead, she settled on the couch with a book, hoping to forget her troubles a short while. But once again, every noise frightened her. She was full of tension. She could not relaxt. Nor could she concentrate. 

When she could not concentrate long enough to read another passage, let alone a page, she stepped outside into the little patch of grass behind the house. She moved over to the woodshed and stepped inside.

The right and back wall were stacked floor to ceiling with wood. On the other side was a work bench. Hung on the walls: saddles, horse blankets and a number of tools: felling axes, broad axes, an adze, beetle, froe, augers, mortise chisels and axes.

Her father never had a work bench like this. He spent his days in his study, writing and reading letters, going over finance books. He never used his hands. She picked up a hammer and examined it in her hand.

Her hand would blister within minutes if she ever tried to use one of these. She thought back to Frank’s hands. Those were hands that knew hard work. She could almost feel them again on her face.

She opened a drawer curiously and took out a nail. She licked her bottom lip and held it to the table. She mimed a strike with the hammer. She would not actually hit the nail. Nails were expensive and she did not want to damage the work bench. Still, she found it rather entertaining to pretend. She wished she had something to nail.

She dropped the nail and it clattered on the wood floor. She bent down with a sigh and retrieved it. She pressed it back to the wood and gave the head a little tap with the hammer. It stuck into the wood and she removed her fingers. She bit her bottom lip and pulled it from the wood. She checked to make sure the nail was not damaged and then pressed it back to the wood.

“Careful now.”

The nail fell to the floor, but the sound of the hammer colliding with the bench, then plummeting to the floor overpowered it. She whirled around, lips parted.

“I don’t want you to hurt those pretty fingers o’ yours.”

His lip curved upward. His hat was angled downward, casting shade of his twinkling blue eyes. She wet her dry lips and took a calming breath.

“It took you longer than I thought it would,” she told him. She held herself with remarkable poise. Her voice was strong.

“That so, darlin’?” he asked. He shot her one of his grins. A gold tooth glimmered. The room possessed only two windows, high up on the wooden walls, but sunlight streamed into the little room.

“Yes,” she answered. “Either I was not a priority or your reputation is over inflated.”

He responded with an amused chuckle and a shake of the head. He looked down at his boots and kicked his heel onto the floorboard. Some dirt fell from them and he repeated the motion. He looked back up with gleaming eyes.

“It aint been four days.”

Her eyes moved to the door behind him. She turned her head, looking for a second exit, but there was none. When she looked back he was no longer leaning against the door. He was now a step closer to her.

“I wasn’t overestimated. You was underestimated. Between the attack and the Ellistons’, you covered almost twenty miles.”

He removed his hat and slicked his hair back. Her eyes widened.

“The Ellistons’?”

“She makes a fine breakfast. She make you breakfast while you were there?”

He patted his stomach.

“That’s gon’ last me till supper.” He gave a look and a shrug. “Maybe lunch.”

His face turned more intense, his eyes more serious. He let out a sigh.

“I suppose we should just get this over with then,” he said. He began pulling at his belt and her mouth went dry.

“Surely you can wait a few hours,” she said. Her voice now trembled. “Or do you have such limited control over your baser desires.”

His hands paused once the buckle of his belt was unfastened. His eyes pinned her to her place. They bordered on aggressive. She’d seen the look in his eye before, but never pointed toward her; she did not like it. Then his lips curved upward, his eyes took on a glimmer of affectionate amusement, but the feeling of anger remained. It might have been knowing what he was capable of, or that he now stood between her and her only way out, or the look on his face and in his eyes, but her insides quivered.

“You got awful spirited in just four days,” he observed. He gave a jerk of his hand and his belt slid from the belt loops. She watched as he folded it in his hands with slow moving comprehension. “I like spirit. But I don’t like bein’ disrespected.”

“I didn’t –”

“Bend over the bench, lift up your skirts, ‘n take your whippin’ like a good girl,” he ordered. She hesitated. “It aint nothin’. I aint gon’ hurt you bad. I got whoopins when I was a boy.”

“And look how well you turned out,” she replied, growing hysterical. She stumbled backward and into the wall that held all the tools. They rattled behind her and his eyes darted up to examine them. He looked back down at her.

“You know, darlin’, for all that book learnin’ you aint too bright. Not smart to challenge the man about to mete out punishment.”

“Wh-why should I receive punishment?” she asked. “I’ve done no wrong!”

He came closer and a tear fell down her cheek. His gaze softened and he stopped.

“Spoiled little thing,” he said. “You don’t understand how things work. I told ye. You’re my girl, ‘n I can’t have you thinkin’ you can just run off with no consequences.”

“You got what you wanted,” she breathed. She held her hands up. “Just let me go home. _Please_.”

He stared.

“I aint got what I want yet. Not by a long shot.”

He raised a hand and pointed to the bench with his belt.

“Bend over.”

“Anderson,” she breathed. She saw hesitance in his eyes. She saw that terrible, obsessive affection.

“Say my name all you want, darlin’. I like hearin’ it, ‘n I’ll have you sayin’ it again soon enough. But right now, I want you to be a good girl, and bend over that bench. Don’t you cry now. It aint nothin’.”

Her lips pinched together and she tensed. Her eyes were wet but no tears fell.  

“Bend over that bench, or I’ll do it, ‘n you won’t like that.”

He stared, eyes cold and hard. She considered screaming for help but she knew better than that. He could be on her in a second. She moved to the bench and leaned down, pressing her palms to the hard wood. She did not fully bend over at the hips.

Humiliation crashed down on her in waves but she refused to cry. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Instead, she poured all the power of her fear into her anger. She listened to his spurs jingle as he crossed the floor. His body was hot beside hers.

“That bastard Roper buy this for you?” he asked softly, pinching her dirty skirt. She nodded silently. “Well, we can’t have this now, can we?”

He stepped closer, his chest touching her shoulder.

“I’ll buy you pretty things,” he murmured. His voice was almost tender. He traced a finger tip along her ear and her eyes fluttered closed. His breath was hot on her face. “Anythin’ you want. I’m a’ get that for you. Yea?”

Her eyes were still closed as she nodded. She sucked in a deep breath. Pressure was applied to her lower back, angling her down further. Her palms spread outward on either side of the table.

“You ever been punished, Arabella? Ever?” he asked. She had been sent to bed without dinner. She had not been allowed to ride her favorite horse once more nearly a week. She did not think that was what he meant. She shook her head. He grabbed her skirts and began lifting them upward. When he gently pulled at the strings to her drawers her eyes popped open.

“How do you expect me to ride a horse?” she asked him, voice taught.

“Aint gon’ feel too good,” he agreed. He hummed as he lifted up her skirts to rest on her lower back. Her bottom was now bare to the room. “You got that look about you. Real stubborn like. You got a fancy word for what you’re bein’ right now?”

“Obstinate,” she replied immediately.

“Obstinate,” he repeated. He gave a little smile. She felt it rather than saw it. His finger traced her ear again. He took another half step closer. Calloused knuckles gently ran over the swell of her white bottom. “Say you’re sorry, darlin’ ‘n I might go easy on ye.”

The plea was right on the tip of her tongue. Pride and obstinacy kept it from leaving her lips.

The force of the smack of the belt was shocking. The belt cracked. Her skin made a sickening noise. At first, her ears rung, and her skin heated, but she felt no pain. There was a stripe of heat along her bottom. Tingling skin. Then she felt the pain.

“How ‘bout now?” he asked. She let out a breath to steady herself, but said not a word. There was no reason for him to punish to her. She’d done nothing wrong. “Hm.”

Another smack came down on her bottom. She felt the pain immediately this time. A cry left her lips.

“Ah,” he breathed. “That sounds pretty.”

He laid down another smack.

“Somethin’ you best get used to,” he mused. “You wan’ be a wife.”

“Thaddeus would never raise a hand to me,” she got out through clenched teeth. She let out another cry as he brought the belt back down. A painful thwack, adding another stripe to her bare bottom. Tears stung at her eyes.

“He aint no man,” he replied. His free hand gripped her chin, turning her face toward his. The hand that held the belt kept her skirts up at her lower back as he straightened her slightly, arching his neck to bring his face closer to hers. “How long between the train raid ‘n the ranch? How long after the ranch and me stealin’ you? How long between you runnin’ off and now?” He asked with a little whisper, his lips close to her, “Where is he?”

Her eyes fluttered and this time a tear did fall from her eye. His blue eyes found it. He watched it slide down her flushed cheek.

“Yeah, I got what I wanted. So you say,” he continued. His eyes flickered back up to hers. “Took me four days.”

With a finger on the hand that gripped her chin, he tapped her cheek.

“Four days,” he added softly. He looked down at her lips. “Haven’t slept. Hardly ate. ‘Cause I was gon’ find you.”

He leaned in and place a soft kiss to the tear on her cheek. When he pulled back, he pinned her with his gaze.

“If he wanted to be, he’d be here,” he added. She said nothing. “You think on that.”

He paused a moment more.

“You wan’ apologize for runnin’ from me now?” he asked. She stared at him. Her eyes were hard. “Alright then. You be obstinate a bit longer.” He grinned and he pressed his thumb to her lips. “I like the sounds you make.”

He bent her back over and delivered another hard smack. She grimaced but kept her lips pressed together hard. She refused to let out a cry. He watched her a moment and then laid down another, this time much harder. It forced a cry from her lips. He laid down another. Another cry left her lips. He paused to stroke the raw skin.

“‘N when you decide to say sorry, we can start your punishment.”

She turned to look at her and he smiled.

“That’s right sweetheart. When you decide to stop bein’ obstinate, you get ten more hard ones,” he told her. She turned her face to look to the other wall. The strikes came harder now.

_Thwack. Thwack. Thwack._

The second brought out a cry from her lips.

_Thwack. Thwack._

“I’m sorry!” she cried out. Her bottom screamed.

“For what?” he asked.

_Thwack._

“For leaving,” she panted. “For running. I shouldn’t have left you.”

 “Why not?” he asked.

_Thwack. Thwack._

 “Because… because…”

His rough, calloused hand gently glided over her burning bottom.

“Because?”

“Because I’m yours,” she whispered. A thumb glided down her thighs. She was completely bent over now. His hand continued to stroke the abused skin. Then his hand fell away. She grabbed the edges of the  bench. She squeezed as tightly as she could. Her knuckles bulged. They turned white.  

Her drawers were pulled upward. They stung against her abused bottom. As the ties were gently fastened her eyes fluttered open. He pulled her skirts back down, letting them fall down around her ankles. His arm tightened around her upper arm. When he pulled her to her feet, she fell against him; Her legs would not support herself.

“No more?” she asked softly. He held her up with ease. His arms were powerful. His body strong. His touch sure.

“No more,” he murmured gently. He touched her face. “Next time you try ‘n run, I aint gon’ go so easy on you.”

She nodded. His ran his fingers along her ear, tucking in hair that did not need to be tucked in.

“I thought maybe… maybe you got hurt. Snakes…sharp drop. Loose dirt.”

She looked over his face as he said it. His eyes were not on hers. Instead, they moved over her face. It was odd. She found comfort in the obsession she found there.

“Got me all sorts o’ worried.”  

“There are other girls,” she said. Her voice was still soft. His finger tips resting on her cheekbone.

“Nah,” he breathed. “Only one o’ you.”

The weight, the _reverence_ , in his words filled her with a feeling she could not quite describe. But it was warm, not unpleasant, and there was an involuntary twitch to her lips. He pinched her chin.

“Come on now, Arabella,” he said. His voice was quiet. “Can you walk?”

She nodded but he did not yet move.

“When we get somewhere safe next, I’ll buy you a pretty dress. One o’ those irons to curl your hair.” He pinched an earlobe. “Earrings.” He smiled. “I like you lookin’ like a lady.” His smile suddenly turned bitter. “Reminds me I’m fuckin’ a woman I aint worthy a lookin’ at too long.”

“I never said that,” she pointed out. He gripped the back of her neck. His eyes burned.

“Any,” he said. “And every man,” he paused again. “That tries ‘n get in my way. I’m gon’ kill.”

She nodded slowly. The look in his eyes was indescribable. She could only gaze back.

“You don’t want blood on your hands… don’t ask anyone to be a hero,” he added. “Y’understand?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Good,” he said and stepped away. “Now come on.”

He released her and her arm darted out. She touched the bench for balance and then pushed forward. He opened the door and stepped out, offering her a guiding hand as she walked down the steps. All her own, she reached for his arm, holding onto it for support as they entered the house.

* * *

There had been something blissfully satisfying about bending his pretty Arabella over that work bench and turning her pretty pale bottom red. The whipping had been light. It was hardly anything that would have corrected his own behavior as a boy. But his girl was soft. Unused to such treatment. He would be shocked if she would even feel it tomorrow. He opened the door for her ushering her into the house. Her knees were shaky, but he did not attribute it all to the punishment. The fast few days had not been easy for her.

“We should go,” she said as they stepped inside. He looked at her with a tilted head and an incredulous look to his face. She pinched her lips together as he moved into the kitchen and began rummaging through drawers. His forehead was sweating. “Before they return.”

He crouched down and threw open a cupboard. His eyes lit and he reached for the bottle.

“You wan’ jump on a horse right now?” he asked her and retrieved the bourbon. He stood and examined the bottle. He looked back to her with raised eyebrows.

“I do not wish to have blood on my hands.”

“I aint gon’ kill ‘em,” he replied dismissively and began his search for glasses.

“If they try and stop you –”

He turned with two glasses tucked between his middle and forefinger, the bottle in the other hand.

“They won’t,” he answered. He noted her look of panic. “Try that is, Miss DuPont.”

He grinned and motioned toward her with the glasses.

“I knew you’d have a fancy name. DuPont. That French?”

She nodded slowly and he sat down and poured two glasses. He looked up to her. She remained on her feet. Calmly, he slid one of the glasses toward her.

“Gon’ help you keep your seat,” he told her. She reached for it.

“You have to pay for it,” she told him. He looked at her from underneath the brim of his hat.

“Oh, Darlin’,” he said softly. He actually felt some pity for her. “Drink.”

He raised his glass and downed it.

“Haven’t had a goddamn drink in two ‘n a half days,” he pointed at her with the hand that held his now empty glass. “That’s your fault.”

“It’s not my fault you ran out of liquor,” she answered. “And you should not drink so much.”     

She had not yet taken a sip from her glass. She stared at it. Twirling it thoughtfully. He watched her closely. 

“You need to shave before I kiss you again,” she said simply. He continued to stare. She looked up when he did not respond. “I do not like it.”

“You’re a picky one,” he said, rubbing his face. “Don’t like it clean, don’t like a beard. Got’ta be just right for you, hmm? I can do that for you, sweetheart. Once we get where we’re goin’?”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Eh, you wouldn’t know it,” he answered. She finished the glass with one large swig. He watched her grimace with a little smile and raised the bottle. She extended the glass, ready to accept more. He heard the front door open and lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, listening. She looked to the hall, and then back to him with wide eyes.

The sheriff stepped into the room with slightly wide eyes, but he did not have the fearful gaze of a man who returned to find a stranger in his home. Instead, the man looked like an excited little boy that was to meet a famed war hero. Frank did not turn his head to look at Arabella. He did not have it in him to see the look on her face.

“Mr. Lawson,” he greeted.

“Sheriff,” he greeted. Blackjack stepped in behind him.

“Your man here can vouch for me,” the sheriff said. “I was looking for you.”

“I know,” Frank said. He turned his gaze to Arabella. The look on her face tugged at him uncomfortably.

“Fifty papers?” Frank asked. “I think that’s a fair price.”

He stood and reached into his pocket. Arabella watched with silent, saddened, resignation.

“She’s worth two thousand,” the sheriff said. Frank paused with the papers in his hand and held them up in front of him incredulously.

“You aint gon’ bring her all the way up to Sante Fe, is yuh?” he asked sharply. “You’re lucky I aint just takin’ her. Don’t hafta pay for what’s mine already. I’m bein’ kind here.”

“I just think I deserve a bit more of the reward,” he protested. Frank simply stared, hands still raised. Not a word was said, but he stepped backward nervously. The coward had sent out a rider looking for Friendly Frank the moment the girl had come into his custody. He found Blackjack, who immediately came to retrieve her for Frank. The two had run into each other at a stable, watering their horses before they sought the sheriff’s house.

“I aint collectin’ the reward,” he told him simply. “You want the money. Or not. ‘Cause right now I’m thinkin’ I might just shoot you and call it a day.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“But I don’t wan’ do that. You see, my lady,” he motioned to her with the wad of bills. She was staring off at a spot on the floor, lips slightly parted. “She’s got a good heart.  She thinks people out here are good. She still won’t want me t’ kill you.”  

He stared at her but she was not paying attention.

“Arabella,” he said. She looked up. “Want me to kill this spineless bastard?”

The man’s eyes widened and he looked to Arabella. She stared at him a moment and then silently shook her head. Her neck was blotchy and her eyes were wet.  

“See? Now, you gon’ take the money? Or not? Cause I’d just as soon keep it.”

“No I… fifty dollars is more than generous. Thank you, Mr. Lawson,” he said and tipped his hat. Frank slapped the papers down on the table with some disgust. He held out a hand to Arabella. “Come on, darlin’.”

She finished the bourbon and walked toward him. She took his hand like a lady took the hand of a gentleman. As uncomfortable as he felt, a odd, he kept her hand held in the air. He had often watched Charles Dufoille walk his wife Cordelia from church. They own the plantation he would cut through to get to his favorite fishing hole as a boy.  He tried to mimic that now.

“Duplicitous,” she said softly as they moved toward the horses tied up at the hitching post outside.

“Sorry?” he asked and tilted his head down toward her.

“Duplicitous,” she spoke louder. “That is what you would call him.”

He thought a moment.

“Duplicitous,” he repeated.

“It means treacherous,” she told him. They got to his horse and he stopped in front of her.     

“Can’t trust no one out here,” he told her softly. “‘N don’t think your reward is enough to save you from meaner men.”

He gripped the bridle of his horse as he examined her. She was doing her best not to cry. He pet the neck of his horse gently. He tried to find the words but he had not been born with an ability to articulate well.

“There’re men out there… posses…” he paused a moment. “They gon’ take a girl like you, keep her with ‘em… use her… all of ‘em. All of ‘em, darlin’. Cheaper than payin’ for whores. ‘N trust me. They’ll get their money’s worth from yuh to hell with the reward. Run again if you can ‘n the whippin’ weren’t enough but… you don’t know who you’re gon’ find and you don’t know who they gon’ sell you to. The Ellistons, they was good people. This’n, just a coward. Your luck _will_ run out.”

He spoke softly, gravely, and she listened intently. She stared off to the side a moment. Those pretty pink lips turned upward into a smile. She let out a bitter laugh.

“I can trust you,” she said. She looked up. God he loved those big brown eyes. They did something to him. “Everything you have said you would do, you have done. You’ve yet to lie  to me.”

“I won’t,” he replied simply, giving a shrug.

“Can we go now, please?” she asked.

“How you feelin’?” he asked. Her hand went to her skirts on impulse. She nodded.

“Well enough to ride.”

He picked her up by the waist. He looked to find the sheriff standing at the front door. Blackjack had mounted his horse.

“Ed,” Frank said and got up behind Arabella. “Get the others. John, Brewster.”

“Where we headed?” he asked. His white scar bulged with tobacco in his cheek.

“Silver City,” he answered. Blackjack blanched.

“ _Silver City_?”

“They’ll be lookin’ south ‘n east. Not west. Take a few days, but we’ll get there ‘n we can relax a bit. Got friends there, ‘n it’s small ‘n remote.”

“Getting’ real tired o’ all this travelin’.”

“We’ll sit tight there,” Frank promised. He clapped his friend’s arm in thanks. It was a gesture. Said more than words ever could. Neither man was expressive. Blackjack gave a nod.

“We’ll meet’cha there. Want me to get Billy? Topher? Sam?”

“Nah,” he answered. He pulled on an earlobe. “Don’t trust ‘em.”

Blackjack nodded.

“Got to pay the Apache.”

Frank almost forgot. He retrieved another wad of bills. He handed it to Blackjack. They were lucky they were getting paid at all and not bullets to the head.  How easy it would have been for Arabella to be shot. Hit. Damaged. He found himself growing angry all over again as he counted out the bills. He’d be givin’ Brewster a hard punch between the eyes when he saw him. Then he’d buy him a drink for getting his girl out of harm’s way. Money for the purchase exchanged, Blackjack rode off.

“Ready now?” he asked.

“When we stop tonight… I want another drink,” she said. He gave a little chuckle and collected his reins.

“Sure thing, darlin’,” he promised.

“A big one.”

“Darlin’, I’ll buy you a bottle of some real nice whiskey,” he vowed. “‘N then I’m gon’ fuck you silly.”

He waited for a curt reply. A sharp barb. A grimace or a tensing of her body. She turned to look at him. She had a little frown on her face as he eyes fell to his mouth. She turned back and settled in, preparing for the journey.

“After you shave,” she replied. His lips curved upward.

“After I shave,” he agreed. He dug in his heels into his horse and with a slow trot, guided his horse toward the sloping hills and into Serpent’s Pass.

* * *

The man had served his country. He was but a boy, but he marched into battle with the same level of bravery as any man holding a gun. And he survived. Archie stared at his brother’s body in the coffin. He’d slung it over his horse and brought it to the nearest town for burial. He paid for a plot. A real grave. A marked one. He deserved that.

“Bout that time, son,” the undertaker said. Archie nodded and stood. He placed his hand on his brother’s chest. His skin was white. His eyes sewed shut. He was cold. He took his hand away and turned. The wooden panel was placed over his face. The boards were nailed shut. Johnse and Abner helped him carry him out to the graveyard. The church was small. Everyone buried in the little plot lived in the immediate area, but the pastor was kind, and took the money for the plot gladly.

The burial was difficult but Archie did not cry. He had already cried all the tears there were to cry. They left right afterward. They did not linger on at the sight. They said no words. They moved through the mountains, looking for signs of the girl. It took some time, but they tracked her to a farm house.

He knocked on the door and it cracked open an inch or so. A bearded man with wide eyes stared back.

“We’re looking for a girl.”

“You and everyone else,” he replied before he could get anything more out. “Brought her to Serpent’s Hallow. Told the other fellow as much. Now leave or I shoot.”

The door slammed shut. Archie moved on to Serpent’s Hallow. They found the sheriff seated in his little jail, fighting angrily with a man objecting to his short imprisonment for chicken theft.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked in surprise. He noted the union blue of his coat and hat. His feelings on it were difficult to read.

“Lookin’ for a girl. Heard she might have come through here,” he said. The man’s eyes shown with recognition. “Yes sir… just missed them actually. They left. Just this morning.”

“Arabella DuPont?” he asked.

“That’s the one,” the sheriff gave an uneasy smile.

“And her companion?”

“Well… Friendly Frank Lawson,” he answered. Archie glanced over at Johnse. He spit. It dribbled into his beard.

“You uh…” he approached him with a wad of bills. The man’s eyes widened greedily. “You wouldn’t happen to know which way they went. Would you?”

“Not sure their destination. But they went through the pass to the west.”

“Santa Fe,” Johnse grunted. “Gon’ be a race for the reward.”

“Oh!” the sheriff said. “He did tell me he was not after the reward.”

Archie looked sharply to him.

“He said that?” he asked.

“He did. Gave me fifty dollars for my trouble. I told him I thought I deserved more of the reward and he replied he wasn’t after it.”

Archie nodded slowly.

“Thank you, sir,” he smiled and tossed down some money. He turned to leave without another word.

“She’s a good girl!” the sheriff called. “I hope you’ll be gentlemen if you find her?”

Archie let the door slam shut.

“No reward?” Abner asked.

“Fucking strange,” Johnse added.

“No… something going on here we don’t understand,” Archie mused and paused at the horses. “He liked this girl.”

“Archie… don’t you think we should reconsider this. I mean… two thousand dollars.”

“He killed our brother’s, Abner. Money mean that much to you, you’ll forget about honor?” Johnse snapped with disgust. Abner scowled, adam’s apple bobbing and narrow eyes growing angry.

“We’ll see,” he agreed. “We’ll watch. But if he cares… if he cares… he’s going to watch her die… he’s going to see her suffer.”

He looked to his friends, eyes burning.

“Then we kill him.”

Both nodded grimly. Vengeance would be had. Archie slung himself up on the horse.

“Let’s go.”

One by one they all began their way west and through Serpent’s Pass.


	10. 10

"You need to sleep."

Her voice cut through the quiet. There was not a sound to be heard amongst the trees that came up from the hard ground beneath the horse’s steady hooves. Occasionally, a bird would chirp, brush would rustle, and then, only silence.

"I'm fine," he answered. He made a deep sniffing sound, scrubbing a hand over his face to keep himself awake.

"You're going to fall from the horse," she replied, turning to look at him. She suddenly realized how tired he truly looked. The fear of seeing him again had distracted her from paying too much attention. Then she was too busy thinking about how she had always detested beards, despite how popular they were. Good luck finding a husband who doesn't wear a beard, her cousin had told her. It was one of the many reasons she had been so attracted to Thaddeus. She only hoped he had not adopted one in the three years they were apart.

Three years was a long time. 

"You look dreadful."

"Thank you, my lady," he said and pinched the wide brim of his hat. He spoke with muted sarcasm. Not vicious, but not amused. She continued to examine his face. She did so openly. She really did not care in that moment. His beard was a sandy blond like his hair, maybe a shade or two darker. His nose had been broken but reset well. She could see the tiny ridge where the bone dipped. A little white scar just above it. She tried to think of what he may have looked like before. She could not help but think that it was an improvement. His nose was large and straight, rather Grecian in its profile. She could see it potentially for looking goofy on his face. Somehow it did not. 

His lips were not thin but neither could they be described as full. They were chapped, the right side of his lower lip red and smooth, where he had chewed the dead skin away. His cheekbones were high but not overly pronounced. They were slightly darker than the rest of his tan face. A result from being slightly closer to the sun. You could not see it until you were this close. He had a tiny scar on his square jaw where the hair would not grow. It was light and white, hardly noticeable. It was not until the hair grew longer that the bare spot drew the eye.

And his eyes. Amazingly blue. Frighteningly blue. A color she'd never seen. Cold and icy, bright. She wished her pink scarf had been blue. How wonderful they would look then. They were almond shaped and a little wide set. 

His face had character. As she looked at him, she could see a man who had lived a hard life. A long life, despite being so young. She once more tried to ascertain his age. She once more discovered she could not. She wondered what other scars lay beneath his clothing. Scars he received on the battle field a life time ago.

But right now, his face was haggard and drawn down, his almond eyes struggling to stay open, the blue now obscured by the red surrounding it, deep, angry veins running through the white sclera. 

"When did you sleep last?" She asked him. 

"I'm fine," he said again. Then mumbled, "should o' had coffee not fuckin' bourbon.”

He still had the sense to apologize for his curse. 

"Stop so you can rest," she pressed. It was difficult to keep her seat and the air was warm. Anytime they came out of the canopy of trees and into the sun it became hot. She would not mind taking a short rest underneath a tree herself. 

"You're not sleepin’ on the ground tonight," he spoke gruffly. "I know a place, few more miles. We'll make it just after nightfall if we continue on."

"Give me the reins," she said. His lips curved upward. 

"No." 

"I am a fine horsewoman. Point me in the correct direction and I shall steer us true. I received lessons from the very best."

"I have no doubts on your skill," he admitted. 

"You think I am going to manage to escape with you sleeping on the back of my horse?" she asked incredulously.

"I don't know what you'll try. You're a witch." 

"I do not know where I am. I do not know who anyone is. If I called for help you would wake up and kill them... then I would receive another … punishment. If I try and push you off and go, I'll get lost. I'll snap the horse’s legs trying to get away. I said I am skilled; I cannot go galloping through this terrain. What else I could possibly do to escape you eludes me."

"Eludes huh?"

"Escapes me... I can't possess or find it."

He nodded.

"Some treacherous terrain here. My horse aint just transportation. Ole’ Bobby Lee here is my friend. You and I might survive a tumble. I aint shootin’ him in these hills cause he fell and broke a leg ‘cause I wasn’t payin’ mind." 

"If I find a spot I do not think I can handle I will wake you. My judgment is solid,” she added. He hesitated. "If I were a man you would have no objection," she huffed. 

"You was a man we wouldn't be havin’ this argument."

He recollected the reins and handed them to her. 

"How's about I watch for a bit. Put me at ease yeah? Then I'll consider it." 

"Thank you," she mumbled. She was actually surprised.

His confidence, if restricted, lifted her spirits. 

She guided the horse over rocks, down steep inclines, and through a tiny brook. Frank showed a great deal of trust in her ability. Only once did his hand jerk out to take the reins from her, and before his fingers could catch the reins, she had moved her hands and guided the horse away from peril. 

"He's obedient," she mused, patting the horses neck. "Very easy to lead."

"He's a good'n," Frank agreed. She turned at the sound of his hushed mumble. His eyes were closed and his shoulders were hunched. His face was angle to the ground. 

"Which way?" She asked softly. Regretfully, he looked up, widening his eyes and then wiped his arm over his forehead. 

"Problem be, I don't know landmarks," he told her. He tapped his nose. "This is what guides me. 'N if we get lost I need'ta know which way to get back." 

Her shoulders hunched with disappointment. 

"I can wake you up at half hour intervals?" She asked hopefully. 

"We don't wan' get lost out here," he told her. He reached around with a frown, spotting her scraped hands for the first time, and flipped her hands over. He looked at her scraped palms and shook his head. His thumb very gingerly pressed to the undamaged skin. 

"Perhaps it is for the best. You shall be too tired to perform tonight," she mused, looking up at the sky that peaked trough the trees. It was a beautiful day. What she would not give to see the ocean. 

"Perform?" he asked. "Don't challenge me darlin''. I don't like losin'."

"It was not a challenge. Simply an observation." 

"You know, if I wasn't such a gentleman, you're mouth would be gettin' you in trouble."

"You will not punish me for such talk," she said with surprising confidence. "I think you quite like it."

"That I do, Miss Dupont, that I do. You see, there's too types o’ Yankees. Timid and demure, and haughty 'n mouthy. You're just a perfect mix." 

"I feel that is the case for all women, regardless of geography."

"Maybe so. More good women in the south."

"And how many times have you been to the a north, Mr. Lawson?"

"Once," he replied. "’N I didn't get to mix with many women." 

"You say you do not like to lose. I would think you have gotten used to it by now." 

Her chin was seized by a large, warm hand, her face forced back toward hers. His blue eyes burned and her insides turned to liquid. Her bottom suddenly began to ache again. 

"Watch yourself," he said lowly. His eyes flickered to her lips and then upward again. "I like you, Arabella, but a man’s got his limit." 

He released her and her chin hurt. She turned her face, blinking back tears. The discomfort passed immediately, that was not the cause of her tears. It was the weight of his anger. She suddenly felt very foolish. She had been caught up. Doing what exactly she was not sure. Not impressing him, that was for certain. And she had allowed herself to entirely forget her manners. 

They rode on in silence for the next hour. He had taken the reins back and he steered them through the terrain with ease. She was unable to ascertain if it was his anger or the fact that the terrain had grown significantly more treacherous. Either way, she was pleased to no longer have the responsibility. 

They stopped briefly to eat. Arabella stretched her legs and relieved herself, but Frank was in no mood to linger. All the while he was alert and tense. He looked over his shoulder. He stopped to listen for noises she had not heard, and in no time at all ordered her back up on the horse. 

They continued on and as he said, just past nightfall, they arrived at a little clearing with a little farm house. By now, it was beginning to grow cool.

He hopped down from the horse as they neared the home and wrapped the lead around the hitching post. He approached the front step his hands up. She was nervous as he climbed the steps. It unsettled her seeing him so apparently timid. He glanced back at her and she saw no concern on his face, illuminated dimly by the flickering lantern to the right of the door. He knocked softly, as unthreatening as a strange knock in the middle of a mountain range could be, and waited. Slowly, the door slowly opened. A small man with a pale bald head and a large nose stared back frightfully.

“I got a gun!” he barked.

“Please, sir, I aint here to fight’yuh,” Frank said kindly. “Travelin’ with my wife here,” he motioned to her. She said nothing. “‘N I can’t have my wife sleepin’ on the ground. She’s a proper woman. If you can just spare us a space? In that barn there even? Soft place to sleep? I got money.”

The man stared at her. It was a long, calculating gaze. The man looked back to Frank.

“How much money?” he asked.

“How’s about ten dollars?”

The man’s eyes lit and the door opened further. He stepped around and rested his rifle against the door frame.

“You two be needin’ a bite? Got some bread ‘n ale.”

“Ale, please,” he said. He looked back at her. It was the first time he spoke her to since her earlier jest. “You want bread?”

She shook her head silently.

“Bread please.”

He handed over the money and the man disappeared. Frank waited as the door was shut. It soon popped back open and a hug of ale and a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth was handed to him. He took it, thanked the man with a tip of his hat, and  returned to the horse. He untied it and lead it silently to the barn.

It rested at the edge of the little clearing. It was large. Something the farmer clearly built himself, and housed cows, pigs, and two goats.

“How can a man make a living here?” she mused as they entered the barn. “It would take a miracle to move the animals to market.”   

“Self-sufficient,” Frank said. “Probably makes his money in lumber or pelts. The animals are for him and his.”

She looked around.

“Hey,” he said. She looked down in surprise to find him by the horse, hands up toward her fingers wiggling. She placed her hands on his shoulders and he helped her jump down.

“Sleep in the loft,” he said as he unsaddled his horse. He sniffed. “Smells in here.”

He lifted the saddle bags from the horse.

“Get on up the ladder,” he said, bent over the bags, his back to her. She moved over to it and looked up. She paused, a blush coming to her face. She bit her lower lip and glanced back at Frank.

She let out a deep breath and grabbed the rails of the ladder. Her foot touched the bottom step. Her palms were beginning to sweat and she looked up. Once foot was still on the barn floor. Her heart was pounding and her brain was flooded with memories. She took another breath to calm herself and lifted up her other foot. On the second step she froze. She closed her eyes. Too embarrassed to lower herself down, she was too afraid to push forward. She startled when he touched her waist.

“I aint gon’ let’cha fall,” he said. “Go on.”

Her arms trembled and she remained rooted to the spot. She turned her face to look back at him.

“We can sleep on the floor, I do not mind,” she told him. He glanced up and patted her hip.

“Go on,” he coaxed. “I’m right behind you.”

She swallowed and looked back up. Another calming breath. She reached up and raised her foot. She felt Frank grab hold of the ladder. He hoisted himself up. His body overlapped her, his arms circling around her waist as he gripped the splintered wood. She checked the grip he had. Hard and firm. She began to move more quickly. Once she was up and he flung the saddle bags up onto the loft and pulled himself up.

He spread out a little bedroll, told her to sit on it, and placed down the bread and the jug of ale. He opened the window, letting the moonlight stream in and give them some light. He rummaged through his bag and retrieved a little lantern. He looked around, examined the amount of straw, and placed it back in the bag.

“Gon’be a cool night,” he told her. He pulled out a little bag and retrieved some salted meats. He broke off a helping for both and then took the bread back from her. “I’ll make sure you eat good tomorrow,” he said. “This is just… just ‘cause we need to get through the mountains.”

“I don’t want to fall,” she found herself saying. She looked over toward the edge. She accepted the bread he had ripped in half and the salted meat. The jug of ale was necessary to stomach the salted meat. She nibbled at it nervously.

He looked at her and then settled down across from her, his back to the drop. He took a bite of bread and glanced down.

“You aint gon’ fall,” he said. He put the bread down and moved to the ladder. He returned after he fed the horse. She watched him as he picked up his foot, ripping into the bread with a jerk of the head. She glanced down at the last of the salted meat.

“Mr. Lawson,” she spoke softly, eyes on her hands. “I would like to apologize.”

He glanced up to find him staring at her. His heals dug to the hard wood floor, arms resting on his bent knees and his chewing slowed. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“My earlier comment on losing, it was my poor attempt at being amusing,” she forced a laugh. She could not hold his gaze. Even in the moonlight, they were piercing. “I could never understand what it is like to watch someone die… watch someone, a friend, die in battle, which you no doubt did. My brother… I in no way meant to belittle that. Please, accept my apology as it is most sincere.”

He stared a second more and then shook his head. Her stomach dropped, but then he began to chuckle, a smile on his chapped lips.

“You’re a strange one,” he laughed.

He stared at her hands. 

“But I accept your apology, Miss DuPont,” he said. He lifted his hat to her and then placed it back on his head. “‘Sides,” he said. He smiled. “I’m fuckin’ some rich yankee’s virgin daughter. I’d say I’m doin’ some winnin’ right ‘bout now.”

She finished eating, shifting so that she could be angled toward him and still look up at the night sky.

“You ever think, darlin’, you’d be fucked in a barn by some poor Georgia boy?” he asked.

“I always believed I would know only one man in my life,” she said by way of answer.

“Who says you won’t?” he asked. She turned and found a cruel smile on his lips.  Her eyes widened and her mouth went dry.

“You… you would not kill me,” she said, though it was more of a question.

“Not what I mean, sweetheart,” he said. She had little time to contemplate it. He began crawling toward her, a blanket in his hands. He tossed it to the side and pushed her back on the bedroll. Some straw acted as a pillow.

He pressed his nose to her neck. He breathed in deeply and loudly against her neck. He breathed out just as hard. Hot air blew against her neck. His tongue darted out and dragged across the flesh of her throat. She tilted her head back, staring up at the moon, trying to fight the tingling between her legs.

He kissed her neck. A soft kiss. Amazingly tender. Another was added, just an inch lower. One of his hands brushed her hair back, using it to steady her head gently. Another kiss and his hands were gently pulled her blouse to the side to reveal her collar bone.

His lips were rough, but soft. So very warm. They left scorch marks on her skin. Hot and tingling.  They found her collar bone, skirting along gently. A few nips were peppered in. A flick of the tongue. A deep breath.     

“Oh,” he breathed. His face turned, cheek pressed to her chest. He could pull it no further, but he clearly wished to get to her breasts. Another kiss was placed to her chest. A few moments later, a lazy kiss to her collar bone.

His breath came out hot against her cooling skin. His body pressed down more firmly to his. His palm remained pressed to the top of her head. Then no kisses followed. There was not a single movement. Only the soft in and out of his breath against her skin. She looked from the moon to the top of his head.

Her slender fingers gripped his hat and she gently moved it to the side, careful not to disturb him. She struggled to see his face in its entirety but he was without question, fast asleep. She smiled softly and reached down to stroke his hair backward, away from his brow. His hair was thick, shorter on the sides than on top, but not cut close.                                               

 _Poor thing,_ she thought, _hasn’t slept in four days._

 _Poor thing._ She thought it bitterly then. She looked down at his head. Her other hand moved and she brushed his hair back further.  

Well, it appeared he was too tired to perform after all. She reached out for the blanket, arms working around him, and it spread it out over them.

_It took him four days to find you._

She looked back up at the moon, head tilted back. She had a little lift to her lips, her hands gently playing with his hair, considering as she fell off to sleep, if she should rib him with it in the morning.

* * *

"Fuck!"

The shout startled her awake. Sun poured in from the open windows. The sky was blue and clear. Birds chirped. She could hear children playing. 

Frank threw himself off of her. His legs got caught in the blanket and he fell backward with a thud and another curse. She heard rattling, things being shoved into saddle bags. She closed her eyes when he descended the ladder. If there was danger, she would know.

She listened to him speaking to his horse but it was a soft mumble, a quiet grumbling. She focused instead on the birds, the gentle kiss of the warm morning sun, and the laughter of children.

She found herself almost at peace.

He came back up the ladder and she waited, squeezing the last bit of rest available to her. And even though his movement was rushed, his curse had been loud, and his hurry obvious, he reached out gently. The touch of his palm to her forehead that a mother might bestow on a sickly child. His murmur was soft and gentle, if insistent. 

"Arabella, time to wake up, darlin'. We got'ta get a move on." 

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at the sky again. 

"Good morning," she murmured. She brought her arms up over her head and stretched.

"Got'ta go," he prompted. He patted her legs and pushed himself back up off the ground. 

She pushed herself up. He snatched the bedroll up and began to roll it tightly. She took the blanket and folded it. A blush came to her cheeks when he seized it from her, grabbed each edge of the blanket, and flung it. He refolded it so he could more easily wrap it around the bedroll and attach it to saddle bags. 

She bit her lower lip as she watched, her own anxiety rising as his began to permeate off of him. He grabbed a few peices of meat, handed them to her, and ordered her to eat. He then hurried down the ladder with the bags. She ate as quickly as she could, as to not anger him. 

"Come on now!" He called. She hesitated and stared toward the large drop. She suddenly felt the dried meat rise in her throat. She licked her lips nervously and shook her head. "Arabella!" His voice was short and gruff, almost a shout. 

"I can't!" she called. She pushed herself away from the edge. 

"What the hell you mean you can't? Just climb down the ladder." 

"I... Please!" he called. What she really expected him to do she had no idea. She just couldn't climb down. Images of falling from the loft those years ago flooded her brain. The agony she felt when she hit the ground and the terrible summer she suffered with her broken bones. How viciously Penelope and Charles Baker had laughed. 

"God fuckin' dammit," he barked and she heard him coming up the ladder. She trembled at the prospect of his wrath and disdain. "Too fuckin' much for a Yankee princess to climb down a lift ladder?"

He said it with surprising venom. He'd never used such rancor before to describe her. It had always held a touch of affection, amusement.

His glowering face soon came into view, almost a proper beard on his face now. His jaw was set and his eyes unfeeling. Her lips quivered and her cheeks flushed, wetted by a treacherous tear as it escaped her blinking eyes. His own gaze immediately turned soft.

"What's wrong?" he asked, voice no longer holding the same anger. He was suddenly in less of a hurry. He waited patiently for her answer. 

"I fell," she croaked. She jerked her chin. She’d lost her footing. She was not even being careless. She stepped on her skirt, her foot slipped, and she plummeted to the ground violently. She was almost out of breath remembering the way she had laid on her back gasping for air. 

"I ain't gon' let you fall," he told her. His voice was not soft and soothing, but nor was it hard or abrasive. It was strong and full of confidence. She looked at him. He gripped the sides of the ladder and leaned backward, creating space between he and the steps. "Like last night. Come on."

She lingered a moment. But she could not stay put and she refused to be the soft woman he thought she was. She crawlers toward him, careful to stay close to the floor to keep her balance, and turned only when she was close enough to step down. His hand went to her hip, guiding her down in front of him. It was so much worse in the light. She looked down and blanched. Her eyes widened and she turned, stomach twisting . She whispered a prayer under her breath. 

"Don't look. Hey, Arabella, lean backwards," he prompted. She shook her head. She clutched the railing and kept her body pressed tightly to the ladder. 

"Lean back on me, let go of the railing."

He had to force her hands away with his, but he was gentle in his persistence, and soon she was leaning against him. "If you fall back, you just gon’ hit me. You're not goin’ anywhere. Yeah?"

She nodded, but her heart still pounded. 

"Alright," he said and took a step down. She followed slowly. He took another. They moved slowly, she one step above his, and then they were in the ground. He helped her off the lower step with his hands on her hips.

"There we go. No Fallin' down."

She thanked him softly and he moved to the horse.  She followed him out of the barn and he lead the horse from the barn. 

"Where is our destination tonight, Mr. Lawson," she asked.  

"Stop calling me that," he spat. He did not answer her question. She wrung her hands in front of herself as she pressed on bravely.

"Forgive me, sir, but if I have done something to offend you please tell me so I might rectify the problem. It was not my intention to cause offense, and I scarcely know what I could have done in the time between waking and now."

He sighed and pulled on a strap hard. 

"I aint angry at you," he said tiredly. "Angry at myself. Now come on. Get."

"My mama always told me when I would sleep in late that my body needed it," she told him neared the horse. 

"Don't really care ‘bout that. Care about finding you a bed tonight. And that jug o' whiskey I promised. Now up on the horse."

He fastened the last of the saddle bags onto the horse and hopped up behind her.

"Let me look at your hands," he said. He took her palms and examined them. He grunted and released them. As had become custom, he asked her if she was ready and he set off. Once again, they moved slowly through the tough terrain, and he was now well rested enough to control the horse himself.

They moved too quickly in some parts and after the third time the earth slipped from beneath the horses hooves, Arabella protested.

"You are acting a maniac," she scolded. "You must slow down."

"Lost half the morning’ sleepin'. And we can't travel at night,” he replied.

"I would rather sleep on the ground tonight than go careening down the mountain side."

He lead them away from the steep ledge and into a cluster of trees. 

"I think you just want to get fucked in the dirt." 

She scowled. 

"I was supposed to be..." She wanted to use his own words back at him but could not bring herself to use that horrible word. "taken by a poor Georgia boy in the barn too. We know how that ended."

"Oh darlin'?" he asked lightly. The smile on his face was one of amusement. He was enjoying this so she pressed on. 

"Yes," she replied haughtily. Chin raised. Looking down her nose. "With said poor Georgia boy too tired to perform." 

He did not say a word. He simply pulled the horse to a stop, leading it over to a small cluster of trees. 

"What are you doing?" she asked, voice taught. 

"Performin', Miss DuPont. Can't let you speak ill of Georgian virility,” he said, jumping off the horse.

"Of course that work you would know," she breathed sarcastically.

He smirked.

"Surely not," she protested. "Surely not in the woods." 

He tied the horse to a tree without a word. That smirk lingered on his face.  

"What if someone comes upon us?" she continued.

"No one out here," he said. He reached for her and pulled her from the horse. She got to her feet and stumbled away from him. 

"You beast," she accused, breathless. He reached out and seized her wrist, pulling her to him with exhilarating force. She trembled against him, lips parted, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. 

"That's what women do," he said. "They turn men to animals." 

He whirled her around and in a flash she was bent at the waist. Her arms wrapped around the hard bark of the tree on impulse. The horse stomped and sniffed to their left. She was breathing heavily already.

Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would rip from her ribcage. She could hear it in her brain. A hard, steady, _thud,_ _thud, thud_. Other than that, silence. 

Her skirts were lifted, her drawers yanked down. Even in his frenzy, he did not plunge into her. He thrust two fingers into her, deep to the third knuckle. He chuckled when he discovered her already moist. 

"An’ any woman can be turned into a bitch in heat," he said hoarsely. "If the right animal gets his paws on her." 

He thrust into her then. There was pressure, discomfort, and then amazing pleasure. She clung to the tree. Her open mouth panted against the hard bark. One hand gripped her hip, the other her waist. He pushed her away as he withdrew. He yanked her to him with ferocity as he thrust himself back inside of her. Her chest collided with the bark with each powerful thrust. The wood scratched her cheek as he scraped against the bark.

Suddenly, she was pulled upward. A firm grip on her upper arms. Her front was pressed forcibly to the tree. A large calloused hand grabbed her chin. Her lips was forced to meet his and they pressed to her hard. His short, scruffy beard tickled her face. She longed for the scratch of his stubble. 

Her mouth opened. They panted against each other's mouths. It was a frenzy and she let herself get lost in it. His tongue licked her lips. He kissed her again. His teeth bit her. She continued her breathless pants. 

_Aint nothin’ wrong with likin’ it._

She heard his voice in her head. Her eyes closed. 

She was pressed to the tree. Her face turned to the side. His body blanketed hers.

 "Look at me," he ordered. "Open your fuckin' eyes."

The sound of his voice, gruff and coarse, sent a thrill rocketing through her. Her eyes popped open obediently. 

"Good girl," he breathed. His thrusts had slowed, but they were hard and steady. He reached up to grab her chin. Their noses pressed together and his had a kind of snarl on his face. "Good fuckin' girl." 

"Ander- Anderson," she breathed. 

"Tell me how much you like it," he breathed. His thrusts remained slow. She was hyper aware of each and every movement. "Tell me you want it."

"I want - I want-" 

Her eyes closed and her lips parted. There was that feeling. A release of pressure, but it was not anything like the last time. She was keenly aware of it this time. There was no whiskey muddling her senses. No fear keeping her from mindlessly enjoying the carnal sin. 

She shuddered, tightened, and let out a little cry. He thrust a few more times, hard fast, and jerky. Then he was out of her, spilling himself on the forest floor. 

He remained close to her and she was grateful. If he were to step away, she would have collapsed to the ground. 

Her arms were released and she wrapped them around the tree for strength. 

"You make the sweetest sounds I ever heard," he cooed, slightly out of breath. He breathed against her face a moment and then kisses her cheek. It was not a chaste peck a gentlemen might sneak a lady, but a hard kiss. He breathed in her scent as he pulled away and his hands left her. Her skirts fell down around her and she clung to the tree, desperately trying to regain her senses.

She hunched down to collect her drawers, tying them with trembling hands.

“Y’all right?” he asked. Coming up to touch her hips and help steady her again. She nodded and turned her gaze up towards his. He smiled and touched her flushed cheek. He breathed, “Just wait till I get’cha to a room tonight. “I’m gon’ fuck you all night long.”

She looked into his blue eyes.

“After you shave,” she said, but her voice would not rise above a whisper. One side of his mouth lifted upward.

“After I shave.”

She moved over to the horse and waited for him to lift her up. A dribble of dampness wetted her inner thigh. She pressed her hand between her legs and shifted. He smiled down at her.

“Now how was that for performin’?” he asked. He recollected the reins. She looked at him and nodded. She did not trust herself to speak. Her heart was thundering in his throat.

_There aint nothing wrong with likin’ it._

He gently dug his heels into the horse. They moved back through the forest. She longer protested the speed in which he spurred on his horse through the dangerous terrain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Haruza for your comments! It means a lot to me. I love hearing what people think of the character development and relationships. Especially when it comes to pacing. I do not ever want it to feel rushed, forced, or fake. 
> 
> Also, I just do not really feel the need, personally, to add in when they go to the bathroom. They would be going in the woods or in chamber pots in bedrooms or in latrines in the back of certain buildings or outside of town. I know some authors put it in there as cute embarrassing scenes, but I also believe that this was so standard for them (maybe not Arabella entirely as far as going outside and in latrines is) that I don't think it would have any impact. 
> 
> I will try to throw in a passing word form time to time about it. Like they relieved themselves, ect. But my personal preference as an author is to just leave it unspoken. 
> 
> Anyway! Thank you again! Means the world to me!


	11. 11

Eleven:

The last two hours of their journey for the day was beyond frightening for Arabella, but she had little choice than to put her full trust into Frank’s hands. The sun had set and they still had a mile or two before they arrived at the town on the other side of the pass. The rocks were lose in the soft dirt and the trees were thick. He refused to get back on the road so soon.   

“Aint even people that might come lookin’ for you,” he said. “Or anyone that knows me. Roads around here at night. You don’t wan’be the person caught out there alone.”

She had accepted his evaluation and held on tightly to the reins. There were no close calls, but more than once a gasp would escape her as the dirt loosened beneath Bobby Lee’s hooves. Frank got to his feet about a half hour from their destination and lead the horse himself. There was little chance they would be able to move faster even if he stayed on the horse’s back, and the night had grown so dark, even just an hour after sunset, that he could not see the path before them.

They arrived at a little inn nestled in a valley. It survived on the people that passed through the pass and though there were not many people within the walls of the little building at a single time, it had a steady flow of visitors.

She let out a sigh of relief as they arrived in the clearing, and she hopped down from the horse before Frank had the ability to help her. She stretched her legs and stretched her arms as she watched him remove the saddle bags and toss them over his shoulder. She offered to take one for him. He responded with a little smile and a shake of his head. When she huffed he took from his shoulder and slung it around her shoulders. Her shoulder’s immediately slumped and her knees gave out. She let the straps slip from her shoulders and it hit the ground.

She glared at him as he chuckled and reached for the bag from the ground. He slung it back over his shoulder and handed the horse over to the young stable hand. He ordered the horse fed, watered, and brushed, and lead Arabella into the inn. They got a room without an issue.

He once again introduced her as his wife. He did not give her the choice to remain behind and rest. She followed him up their room, waited as he tossed down the saddle bags, and then followed him back to the dining room. He waved a hand to the barkeep and the house meal was brought over to them. No menu existed. They did not have the means or the manpower to have more than one meal offered. They nestled down in the corner and ate in tired silence. A little wedding party celebrated on the other side of the room. Arabella let her eyes linger on them sadly.   

Through the smoke and the haze that hung in the little tavern's air, the sound of cheerful singing filled the air. It seemed that the little remote group of patrons had forgotten about the stranger and his wife nestled away in the corner. Even the shifty manner in which Frank moved his eyes side to side as he checked face after face for any sign of recognition or hostility no longer seemed to worry them. 

Arabella ate silently, her head aching slightly from lack of nourishment. She drank her ale down, but she would have given anything for a glass of sherry. She missed the taste. She wondered if they could get any in Silver City. 

Frank finally relaxed. He leaned back in the chair, an armed draped over the back, and looked to the old man silently sucking on his pipe behind them. 

"Can I borrow that?" He asked. The man looked at him, black eyes beady and cold. 

"Aint free," he puffed, smoke billowing from his fat, chapped lips. Frank flipped him a penny and the paper was handed over without any more discourse. She glanced up from her stew and watched him read. His brow furrowed and his lips pressed together hard. A dark hand came up to scratch his beard. 

"Come on over here, Arabella," he asked softly. She slid from her chair to the next so she sat beside him. He handed her the paper and leaned in. Very, very softly, he murmured, "you read that for me?"

She almost laughed. She was glad she did not. She looked at the page and began to read softly to him, slowly processing the fact that this man could not read. Despite the fact that it should have come to no surprise, she found herself in possession of quite a bit of it. 

"The unnamed posse believed to be headed by 'Friendly Frank' Lawson, Sunday, June 10th, the year of our lord eighteen hundred and seventy one, attacked and murdered a tailor in Las Cruses. In their possession, three pairs of leather boots and two holsters. The tailor, the late Zachariah Roy Taylor, was seventy four. A veteran of the-” she stopped, amazed at the wording, and then continued, “A veteran of _the war of northern aggression_ and the Mexican-American war, he leaves behind three children and sixteen grandchildren."

"Kill a man for tree pairs o’ boots and a holster," he spat, grabbing the paper from her again and looked it over. "'N they go ‘n slap my name on it. Like I had anythin' to do with it." 

He looked it over once more and tossed the paper down. She looked at it and, no longer hungry, reached for it instead of her food. She read the next page, discovered it was about some town being founded in Arizona, and moved on. Her heart suddenly stopped. 

It might have brought her peace. It should have. To know he did care, that he was looking. But the ad seemed to do nothing but cause a wave of confused despair to wash down over her. 

Thaddeus Burke, her beloved, put up a reward of 500 dollars. On page 4. 

Her lower lip quivered and she looked up. Frank had been watching the newly married couple dance, chewing lazily on his lamb. He glanced over at her when her gaze remained lifted, glassy eyes staring out across the room. 

"Darlin'?" he asked. She crumpled the paper with a violent clap of her hands.

"Mr. Lawson, might we retire now?" she asked. He looked at her, down at the paper she had crumpled, and nodded slowly. She left the table and glided to the staircase. She blinked to calm her quivering heart. 

Frank followed, her half plate of food in one hand and the paper tucked beneath his arm. 

The walk upstairs was difficult. Her legs felt as though they might collapse. She had to reach out more than once to steady herself on the wall, but it was merely a graze of her fingers. She kept her child held high. Her movements as graceful as possible. 

He retrieved the key without a word and the door swung open. She walked in a circle as she entered the room. One hand on her waist, the other on her forehead. When they dropped, they dropped like boulders. Hands by her side, back straight but shoulders slumped, she turned to Frank. 

He was placing the food in the side table, turning the gas lamp up. Then he tossed down the paper. He did not seem surprised when she began to approach him, but really, there was little reaction at all on her face. He looked at her with those icy eyes. Delicate, slender hands rose, but they hovered above him. She did not know where to touch him. How to touch him. They moved to his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders, but never once did she touch him. Finally, her hands lowered. Soft and cool against his hot skin. Her finger tips delicately played with the hair at the back of his back. 

"I aint shaved yet," he pointed out. Her eyes found his. Hers darted between his. Wet, sad, momentarily defeated. With a little shake of her head, she pulled him downward, and pressed her lips firmly to his.   
 

* * *

  
  
There was an interesting difference in feeling between holding down the sweet and reluctant and the feel of the vulnerable willingly holding you to them. Neither seemed greater than the other. Both overwhelmed him with a sense of delight, passion, need... and power. He had always thirsted for it.

Never had it been so deliciously tasted. Whatever she might have read in that paper, and he could hazard a guess, had such a wonderful effect.

Her mouth opened wide and she held him to her firmly. He kissed her softly. The animal that drove him wanted to pounce. He wanted to take her with every piece of energy he had left. The need to show her that she belonged to him. Every sigh that left her throat, every breath that passed her lips, every hair on her head: it belonged to him. 

But he fought off that burning need and kissed her softly. He touched her hips gently. He let his lips linger, prod. And she kissed him back. Her fingers dug into his neck. Another yanked on his vest. It was beyond intoxicating. The feel of such insistent need, coupled with such innocent ignorance. She did not know how to kiss. She did not know where to put her hands. She did not know what to do. It was pure, vulnerable instinct with which she acted. He felt himself grow drunk off of it. 

He withheld a little. He wanted to feel her come to him. And she did. He fed off her desperation. Her hands pressed harder to his head. She pressed him to her for firmly. What the kiss lacked in finesse or skill, it more than made up for in need. He could not help the smirk that came to his lips. 

"You're perfect," he breathed. His fingers ran up the back of her bodice. It was fastened in the front and he plucked at the buttons gently. She slowly pulled his scarf, her scarf, from his neck. He pushed the bodice off of her as she removed his vest. Their lips pressed together as she unbuttoned his shirt. 

"Like," she breathed, kissing him again. He knew it was wrong. He begged his poor dead mother for forgiveness, but her neediness lit him on fire. He glanced to the paper resting on the night stand. "Like in the woods?"

He looked down at her. Big doe eyes wet and searching. 

He wrapped an arm around her middle and lifted her. Her arms wrapped around her neck and he brought her to the night table. The food clattered to the floor. The paper crinkled beneath her. He barely caught the lamp before he lit the bed on fire.

He put her on her back. He wanted to see her face, and stepped between her legs. His hands collected the ruined skirt and pushed it up her creamy thighs and bunched it around her hips. Her parted the opened of her drawers and retrieved his swollen erection. Never had he felt so much blood pouring through him. He could hear the blood as it circulated through his veins.

He took her hard and he took her fast. 

He gripped her hips hard. He fucked her like he wanted to hurt her. The table slammed against the wall with each grunt that escaped his lips. And the soft little Yankee did not cry for him to stop his bruising treatment of her innocent flesh, but instead, those delicate hands reached for him. He grabbed her wrist and yanked, pulling her into a seated position. His arms held her middle firm. Her arms wrapped around his neck. 

Two thousand dollars. He'd not give her up for all the money in the west. The whole goddamned world. 

He stepped back, trusting his feet, and fell backward into a chair. His lips found hers. His tongue invaded her mouth. His hands lay flat and wide on her back and ribs. And deliciously, in their new location, she had to move herself. Innocent, confused instinct took her over. Her hips rolled. His face pressed to her breast and he leaned back in enough time to rip through her blouse and free her breasts. His mouth found them, suckling greedily. 

He felt her orgasm rip through her. It was like the first time he killed someone. That feeling of absolute numbness, yet you felt more than a human being should ever feel at one time. No words. Not a single one could describe it. 

And he managed to keep his senses about him. He pulled himself from her. As difficult as it was he did. He needed to know he could have her for months to come. A baby would be a troubling responsibility right now, and Anderson Lawson would abandon no child of his. 

She collapsed against him. She sagged downward. Her body went limp. Her nose found his neck and she pressed her face to his burning skin. He felt her tears, before he heard them. Her shoulder shook and she dissolved into a soft ball of fleshy agony. His heart ached and he held her closer to him. Tightly. Possessively. 

"I would kill for you," he found himself vowing. "I'd rather die than see you in another man’s arms." 

Irrational, of course. Crazy, more than likely. But true? Nothing had ever held more truth in his life. 

She sniffled, tightened her hold around his neck, and pressed herself against his body more firmly. Then, once situated more comfortably, renewed her soft sobs.

* * *

 

It was a cool morning that greeted him as he stepped out of the inn, an old silver spoon from his saddlebags in his hand, his shaving kit in the other.

He crossed the empty clearing, stepped into the tree line, and traversed a steep little incline. The water was frigid and as he readied himself to shave, he submerged the spoon in the cool mountain stream. 

He hummed softly. A song that once brought him joy and now left him with a sad but warm ache in his heart. Oh, how he wished he was in Dixie. Every day that passed. He hummed, remembering home. He remembered the warm Summer's playing in the water. The negro boy, Cicero, his only friend until the boy was sold to a neighboring plantation. Died of heat stroke that next summer. They would spend hours in the water when Cicero was able to sneak away. He'd go home and his mother would have cool tea and corn bread waiting for him. Sometimes a fresh peach. His sister would be singing happily, skipping around the edge of their little home. Sometimes she would be on the crooked old swing he had built for her. 

He winced as the blade sunk in too deep. Drops of blood fell to the water. He stared at the blade. Suddenly he smelled gun powder. He heard the crush of artillery. He washed off the blade and finished shaving. He did his best to make sure it was not a close shave. 

He collected his things and took the spoon from the water. He tested it on his skin. Cold enough. He went back to the inn and climbed the stairs. 

She was where he left her, still sleeping peacefully in bed, eyes red and swollen. Gently he shook her awake. She rolled over, puffy eyes fluttering open. 

"Got'ta get a move in," he told her. He held up the spoon. "Press it your eyes." 

He rose and readied to left the room. He walked down stairs and the barkeep was leaning against the table, tired from a long night, but ready for the new day. His eyebrows rose when he saw Frank approaching. 

"Little big, might be," he said. He handed over his ‘sold dress. He'd kept it when she went to Sante Fe with her husband. He had a picture of her though, it was worth parting with for five whole dollars. He walked back up the stairs, pressing at the cut on his cheek. He wiped his fingers away to see a little smudge of drying blood.

When he stepped back into the room, Arabella was seated on the side of the bed, holding the spoon to her right eye. 

"Got this for you, darlin'," he said. "Not as fancy as you’re used'ta, but clean."

She smiled softly at him, eyes tired. He walked over to her and tossed the cloning into the bed. He put a hand to the back of her head softly and examined her a moment. 

"Y'alright," he asked. She nodded again, smile widening a fraction of an inch. He grabbed the crinkled up paper from the night before and slung the saddle bags over his shoulder. 

"Meet me outside when you’re decent." 

She said nothing and he moved down the stairs. It was time he found out what was in that newspaper.  
 

* * *

  
Arabella dressed herself slowly. She was utterly exhausted. Crying always had that effect in her, and now she was overcome with a toxic mixture of emotion. Equal parts shame, anger, and terrible hurt. Yet, there was very little regret. It only compounded her shame.

The dress itself was not the quality she was used to, nor was it a style she was particularly fond of, but getting herself out of the filthy clothing she had been forced to travel with the past few days was a Godsend. Her stomach grumbled as she descended the stairs, but she trusted that Frank would see them fed before they set off on their journey.

She stepped through the front door anxiously. Her anxiety was washed away when she found Frank immediately, leaning up against a post, speaking to Bobby Lee with a soft pat to the nose. With heavy legs she walked toward him, struggling to keep her still puffy eyes open. She twirled the spoon he had given her in her hands.

He turned his head, face shaved, but not smooth. Her lips twitched. His blue eyes lit up and he looked her over. The littlest of smiles came to his lips and he shook his head.

“Woo-eee,” he called, removing his hat. He left Bobby Lee tied to the fence and began to swagger toward her. “Look at you. I do like you lookin’ like a lady.”

She blushed and looked around. She hardly looked like a lady. A few people glanced over with little smiles on their lips. How lovely it was, to see such a happy young married couple.

He held out a hand and she gave him hers. He took her delicate fingers in his and lifted it into the air. A little giggle left her lips on their own accord as he spun her around. When he straightened her again, he was shaking his head.

“My lady,” he smiled at her. He wrapped an arm around her  and pulled her closer. “When we get to our next destination, how’s bout we get you a horse, hmm?”

Her face lit up and her lips parted.

“I think you know what’s gon’ happen if you run? If I get’cha. If I don’t?”

She nodded.

“Alright, let’s get a move on,” he said. She yelped when a large, strong hand pressed to her bottom, squeezing a full, round globe roughly. He turned and smacked her bottom, sending her hurrying toward the horse with a little leap in her step. She turned back to glare at him, but her lips were pointed to the blue sky.

He spoke with the inn owner a few moments, accepted a hot loaf of bread, and handed over some pennies. When he returned, he hopped up behind her and began to lead Bobby Lee back down the road.

“Will we be staying on the road today?” she asked hopefully.

“Think so,” he answered. “Can’t see a reason not to. Lean back and sleep if you want. I’ll wake you if I need to.”

She leaned back in the saddle, letting him support her.

“He does love me,” she said. Her voice was soft. “He would not have sent for me if he did not. He just… five hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

She wanted him to dispute her assertions. She wanted him to try and contradict her. She would show him how he wrong he was. She would tell him how good a man Thaddeus was. How a man like Frank Lawson could never compare to a man like Thaddeus Burke.

But Frank did not say a single word. He did not grunt. He did not sigh. He merely walked the horse onward. His silence weighed on her like an outward force, pushing her further down in the saddle. Her bottom ached. Too many days on a horse.

“I am hungry,” she said. He put the bread into her hands. She nibbled at it softly, gazing up at the sky with her puffy eyes.

* * *

 

The air grew dryer as they moved closer to the desert. The air grew hot. The sky cloudless. Sweat was coated her forehead by the time they midday arrived and she regretted the loss of the canopy of trees that had protected them in the mountains.

“Back to the desert?” she asked as they finally returned to flat land around late afternoon. He retrieved his canteen and handed it to her.

“Nah,” he answered. “Damn hot this time o’ year, but not quite desert. Got grass… trees. You’ll feel right at home.”

She said nothing and looked around.

“How much further?”

“Gon’ stop at the next town we get’ta. Then get to Silver City tomorrow,” he answered. “You wan’ stop a short while? Get some eatin’?”

“Please,” she answered.

He kept the horse going a bit longer, over the last bits of swells in the earth. He halted Bobby Lee at the last large swell before the land stretched out endlessly before them. It was absolutely beautiful.

“Wow,” she breathed. It was the first time since her arrival in this strange, untamed land, that she was able to really appreciate its beauty. 

He hopped from the horse, helped her down, and then removed the saddlebags from Bobby Lee so he could graze. She lowered herself to the ground in the tall, yellow grass, reaching out to  let them tickle her palms.

“Here y’are,” Frank said and plopped down a few feet away. He sat with one leg outstretched, the other bent, serving as a resting place for his elbow. She unwrapped the cloth and looked down at the bread and salted beef. Frank took a swig from his canteen and then offered it to her. She took a sip or two of the ale and then surrendered it.

“There is beauty,” she mused softly. “I did not think I would like any of it but I do.”

He looked out thoughtfully.

“I miss the willows,” he said. He lifted his arms. “Those big ones?”

“We had one in our backyard,” she smiled.

“Plantation my daddy worked on had a big’n in the front garden.”    

He stared off thoughtfully, grimly. She observed him closely. Lines had sprung up beside his eyes.

“Where in Georgia?” she asked him.  “Are you from, I mean.”

He glanced down to roll a piece of bread into a little ball. He popped it between his lips, letting it pad his cheek. He looked back up, squinting into the sunlight.

“Just outside a little town called Eastbrook. Smack dab ‘tween Atlanta and Savannah.”                                        

“Oh,” she whispered knowingly.

“Oh,” he responded sarcastically. 

“Do you ever think you will return home?” she asked.

“My home’s gone,” he said. “Aint no one back there waitin’ for me.”

His eyes were far away, lost in a different place and time.

“I hafta take a piss,” he said and got to his feet. She watched him go, chewing slowly on the hard beef. When he paused and reached for his belt buckle, she turned her gaze away from his turned form. She looked out into the fields. Smack dab between Atlanta and Savannah. She shivered at the thought of it. How lucky she had been, to be born a wealthy woman in the north. In the south, even her status would not have been enough to shield her.

He did not come back after he relieved himself. He walked out into the field, hands on his hands. She watched him roll back and forth, the balls of his feet to his heels, back to the balls of his feet. He would gaze down at his boots, then look up at the horizon.  He came back a half an hour later, his face neutral and demeanor cool.              

“Forgive me, sir, if I upset you,” she spoke and he scoffed, holding out a hand.

“Only thing you can do to upset me, darlin’ is keep callin’ me ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Lawson’. My pa wasn’t even Mr. Lawson. Frank or Anderson. Don’t care which.”

He pulled her to her feet again and smiled.

“Well, you might upset me with runnin’ again but… I would enjoy findin’ you.”

“I will not run again unless I am certain I will get away,” she answered. He blinked at her. His smile began to fade a moment and then he burst into laughter.

“I do appreciate your honesty, ma’am,” he chuckled, tipping his hat. “Now, up on that horse.”

“Will I truly get my own horse for the final stretch tomorrow?” she asked. He clicked his tongue. She thought it was at her, but then Bobby Lee began walking lazily toward them.

“Well I don’t know now. Since you so anxious to run off.”

“But I only –”

His lazy laughter quieted her. She watched him put on the saddle bags.

“You’ll get your horse,” he promised. He smiled. “At Silver City I’m gon’ buy you a pretty new dress too.” He tightened the strap of the saddle bag. “‘N earings, maybe? Shoes.”

“That would be very kind of you, sir… Mr. – Anderson.”

“Mr. Anderson,” he repeated. “Never been called that before. Come on now.”

He helped her up onto the horse and swung up behind her.

“Would you like the reins, Miss Arabella?” he asked. She wanted to say no out of spite, but instead, she chose to nod silently. The reins were put back into her hands and she guided them south along the mountain range.

* * *

 

They arrived at their destination just before five. The sun glowed orange and warm in the sky flirting with the horizon for a few hours more. The tavern they arrived at was larger than the one the night before, and Arabella hoped for a larger room and a more comfortable bed.

They stepped into inside, earning not so much as a turn of the head from the patrons inside. Used to all types of travelers wondering in and out, they long ago lost any interest in examining the face that they would forget tomorrow. Frank removed his hat and wiped his sweaty brow. When they sat down, he plopped it on the table. He looked at her a long moment.

“What?” she asked sharply. She reached up to touch her face. She felt for spots. As miniscule at it was, erupting in pimples right now would have put her in terrible distress.

“I just like lookin’ at’cha,” he said. She looked away with a shake of her head and a lift to her lips.

“You are more charming than friendly,” she observed.

“Yeah, but charmin’ Frank don’t have that same ring,” he answered. He raised a hand to get the bar maid’s attention. “‘N I am mighty friendly.”

“No, friendliness is very different. A friendly person does not threaten people. Or kill them. Or _kidnap_ them.” 

“Not so,” he argued. He pointed a finger. “ _Good_ people don’t do those things. _Friendly_ people still can. They’re just more pleasant while they do it. Friendly don’t mean good.”

“I suppose. Neither charm nor friendliness require sincerity.”

“Now, that hurts my feelins,” he said. A busy serving girl in a state of shocking undress walked up to the tables. Her breasts nearly spilled from the top of her corset, and her hand slid over Frank’s shoulders seductively. Arabella watched her with a look of uncontained disgust on her face.

“What can I get you, honey?” she asked. Frank lifted her hand from his shoulder, a grin in his lips, and dropped it to the side.

“Meals?” he asked.

“We got, goose, fish, pies, duck…” she said. She leaned up on the table, pressing her breasts together, and gave Arabella a smile. “This here your man?”

“My husband,” she snapped.

“Pity,” the woman replied. She smiled shyly over at Frank.

“What do you want, my darling wife?” Frank asked. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, winking at her as he did.

“Roasted duck?”

“Roasted duck and a chicken pie, got carrots and onions?” the woman nodded. “With carrots and onions. Thank you, darlin’. Oh, and a bottle o’ whiskey.”

“Don’t be jealous now,” he smiled. “Can’t see nothin’ but you.”

She rolled her eyes and looked around the little tavern, but her muscles tried to bring her lips up into a smile. She found two men sucking on pipes, sipping on shots of whiskey, and playing with their cribbage. Her eyes, full to the brim with longing, lingered just too long.

Frank rose to his feet and cross the room with that wobbly walk of his. He spoke to the men briefly and soon they were all laughing and smiling. Frank took a taste of their tobacco. Clapped them on the shoulders, and then returned with the cribbage board tucked under an arm and their cards in his hand.

“You wanted’ta play?” he asked as he sat back down. She nodded without a word and glanced toward the two men nervously. They tipped their hats with smiles of greeting.

They played cribbage into the night. They ate their food as they played. Arabella even took a shot or two of whiskey. She did not like it but she enjoyed the warmth that it sent spreading through her limbs. Once the warmth began to fade, she would ask Frank for another.     

He was not a man that would let a woman beat him. It made her victories all the more pleasing. Her brothers, Thaddeus, she always seemed to win when playing them at anything. When she realized around the age of fifteen that they were letting her win, she had been so devastated that she had not played a game with them for nearly half a year.       

The first game played, Frank beat her soundly. She was a little surprised at his vigor. As they reset the board, he winked at her. The next he won also, but only just. Then she had her first victory. The annoyance on his face had a smile beaming on hers. She took another shot and began to pull out the pegs. Their victories evened out after that. Both went for blood with each play.

When she called out Muggins and knocked over his pegs he stared at her incredulously. He blinked in annoyance and she giggled.      

“You call muggings, _before_ the game begins,” he said. “I could’ve called it ten times over, you not sayin’ your score.”

“Yes, but you did not,” she replied. “Truly,” she replied lightly. “Do not tell me you have a deep abiding desire to follow rules?”         

“When they suit me,” he responded. She smiled and raised her empty shot glass, holding it up for more. Before she could voice her request, he silenced her.

“Put your head down,” he said.

“What?”

“Head. Down.”

She did as he said, all the while doing her best to look natural. He reached for his hat and placed it on his head.

“Arabella, now I want you to do exactly what I’m gon’ tell you. Y’understand?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“When I say so, you go out to the stables. Get the boy there to saddle up Bobby Lee. Walk slow an’ keep calm. He aint here for you. He aint here for me. But we got’ta get on out o’ here. Y’understand?”

“Yes,” she said.

Frank reached out and poured himself a shot. He then filled her glass. He downed both fo them. He took the opportunity to raise the hand to his mouth, allowing him to gaze around the tavern with an obscured face.

He looked back down and collected the cards slowly.

“I’m frightened,” she breathed. She darted her eyes up to find his blue gaze staring back at her.

“Nothin’s gon’ happen to you.”

Though his voice was soft, he said it with such calm certainty, that she suddenly felt more at peace. She put her faith in him and found it to be a freeing experience.

“Do I know you, friend?” a voice asked, an accent she did not know turning his words. Frank raised a hand to scratch a cheek. He lifted his face to the stranger. “Well fuck me silly. Frank fucking Lawson.”

“Chuck.”

“Never thought I’d see your ugly mug again,” he said and then spit onto the table. Black sludge and mucus fell onto the cribbage board. Her stomach turned and she turned her head away, eyes closing.  “This that girlie everyone’s talking about?”

“Arabella, go outside,” Frank ordered. She got to her feet but the pan reached for her. She jerked to the side, bumping into the table behind them.

“Do not touch me.”

‘Chuck’ laughed. He drew his gun quickly, pointing it at Frank’s face.

“After I kill you, Frankie. I’m going to fuck your girl.”

“You won’t touch her,” Frank warned. Chuck looked to Frank. He had green eyes. Red hair. Tall but stocky. Two buttons were missing on his striped vest. His hat had a hole in the brim.

“You’re a smug bastard, Frank. You know that?”

He cocked his pistol.

“I only wish I could kill you twice.”

She looked to her right. Her eyes were wide. She reached out, seized the glass from the table, and slammed it down to the ground. The stranger's head jerked toward her. Glass shattered and two guns discharged. She stared, eyes wide. The man fell to the ground with a thud. She watched, open mouthed. Frank stood from the chair and took two measured steps. He raised the run, and fired twice more into the man's face. 

“Anderson?” she called. He turned back to her and extended his hand. 

“Come on,” he called. “Come on, Arabella.”

She hurried toward him. She looked toward the dead body. Her body went numb. His brains splatted across the floor. His remaining eye stared up at the sky, glassy, void, lifeless. She stepped on the shattered glass she had broken on the floor. 

"Don't look. Arabella. Don't look."

His hand seized her wrist and pulled her away from the dead man on the floor. 

“Your bags,” she breathed foolishly as they moved toward the stables.

“We’ll get new ones."

By the time she was on the back of his horse, her arms wrapped tightly around his middle, riding hard into the night, the shouts of ‘murder’ were beginning to ring through the air.                                         


	12. 12

A single cloud blocked out the light the full moon tried to provide them as they rode hard through the warm night air. Not a single sound but the sound of Bobby Lee’s hooves pounding the hard earth beneath them met her ears. There was not the sound of dogs. No sound of trackers shouting out commands. No other riders for miles upon miles. But still Frank rode the horse hard until they were well beyond reach.

 

Finally, the lone cloud began to dissipate in the darkness, letting the glow break free from its embrace. The valley turned almost bright. The earth below them blissfully visible. They skirted the tree line, moving closer to the mountains in the distance. Soon he slowed, giving the loyal beast below them a much needed and more than deserving rest.

 

"I can't believe... I can't believe we killed someone," she panted as she jumped down from the horse. She did not even wait for the horse to come to a stop. Frank cursed and reached for her but she jumped onto the soft ground of the valley, stumbling through the tall grass and away for the walking horse. 

 

"You didn't kill no one," Frank grunted, jumping down from the horse. "I did. Don't you feel no guilt on that."

 

"You think I feel guilty?" She asked sharply. She turned, skirt whirling around her. She searched for him in the darkness. The cloud was now gone, leaving the sky clear, millions and millions of stars staring down at them in judgment. He blinked at her. 

 

"I know what he would have done to me. I am not so foolish. A man who lives that life loses his right to it."

 

"That so?" he asked, tying Bobby Lee to a tree. He walked toward her calmly. "And me? Miss Arabella. I lose my right to my life?"

 

"You've committed crimes that would forfeit your right to it, yes,” she replied. How he could think otherwise baffled her. The hangman’s noose was made for men like Frank Lawson.

 

"Such as?" he asked. He lifted his hat and bent forward, spitting into the crumpled grass at their feet.

 

"What- murder. kidnapping. Rape- "

 

He reached out and seized her wrist, jerking her toward him. She collided into his chest hard. 

 

"Rape?" he asked sharply. "Who have I raped? You? Not a damn chance. I had you rutting and panting like a whore.”

 

Her skin flushed. She felt the truth in his words strangling her blistered heart.

 

"You...” her resolve faltered and she protested pathetically, “I never would have..."

 

"But you did." 

 

He turned them and suddenly she was thrown against a tree. Her breath left her lungs and refused to return. The beat of her heart was sporadic, elevated.

 

"You rode me like a two cent whore last night," he breathed, lifting up her skirts. His knee forced her thighs apart.

 

"No," she whispered. 

 

"Yes," he ground out. "Killin always gets my blood hot. Should I ... rape you now, Miss Arabella?"

 

His breath was hot along her cheek. He breathed in deeply. His lips parted against her cheek. His teeth grazed her skin. She pressed on his chest but it was feeble at best. Her eyes fluttered closed and she waited, head tilting back against the hard bark.

 

"You drenched my fingers with that virgin pussy,” he murmured low in her ear. “I couldn’ta raped you if I wanted to.”

 

She closed her eyes and shook her head. His lips ghosted over her cheek again. Her heart now fluttered in her throat. He pulled back to examine her. 

 

"Nah," he breathed. "I didn't rape you."

 

He hooked his finger beneath her chin and made her look at him. In the moonlight, those blue eyes looked inhuman. 

 

"I wan’ hear you say it," he whispered.

 

"You didn't.." She began but her voice broke off. He pressed himself against her. She sucked in a strangled breath. "You didn't rape me."

 

"I didn't," he whispered and kissed her lips. It was soft. Tender. Lingering. "I've seen rape. This wasn't rape. Y'understand?" 

 

She nodded. He moved his face so he could see her more clearly in the moonlight. He tilted her chin, illuminating her frightened face. His eyes burned. 

 

"It wasn't."

 

"It wasn't," she agreed.

 

He released her and stepped away. Her heart was pounding, her palms sweated, her inner thighs trembled, and she felt an inexplicable wash of disappointment. 

 

"You get yourself some kindling."

 

Silently, she set about collecting kindling. Her hands trembled and her knees shook as she did. She glanced at the sound of Frank rustling in the woods. He came back to the tree line and dropped an armful of dry sticks and branches. He set about building a fire as she finished collected the kindling. She tried to clear her mind, to make sense of all she was feeling, but she found she could not. 

 

"Mr. Lawson?" she asked as she walked toward him. She saw the dead man again in her brain. The blood. The bullet holes in his skull. His brain matter splattered against the floor. She felt nothing. 

 

"You call me Mr. Lawson again darlin'. I did like those sounds you make for my belt."

 

"Anderson."

 

"Arabella?"

 

"Our next destination, might we find a priest?"

 

"A priest?" he asked in surprised. 

 

"So I might make confession."

 

"God bless my poor dead mother's soul, I've taken up with a goddamn papist," he shook his head. "Forgive me sweet mama," he said to the sky. "But I just can’t quit her." 

 

She brought the kindling over and placed it before him. He reached into his pockets and dug deep. 

 

"Mr. -" 

 

He looked up sharply, a tilt to his lips, a hopeful and excited glint in his eyes.

 

"Anderson. May I speak to a priest?"

 

"No," he answered. "Hell, I don't even think there's a Catholic in a hundred miles."

 

"I will not reveal my identity. Nor shall I reveal yours. A priest cannot break the sacred trust of the confessional." 

 

"Darlin', people can do whatever the hell they want. Aint nothing keeping men honest out here." 

 

He retrieved a knife from his belt and knelt down. He began slicing at a twig. A rush of wind sailed in and she shivered. 

 

"Sooner you learn you can't trust no one but yourself, the better off you'll be." 

 

"Should I distrust you?" she asked, settling down to watch him work. He glanced up at the moon and then back to the unlit pile of twigs and dry grass. 

 

"Not includin' myself o'course," he grinned. "I'll take care o’ you good." 

 

"Five hundred dollars is a lot of money," she pointed out again. "A fortune for most."

 

She waited once more for him to speak. Then she could show him how wrong he was. She could point out that he was nothing compared to her Thaddeus. How ignorant the poor rebel traitor turned outlaw really was. How she felt nothing but contempt for everything he was. But once more he said absolutely nothing, he remained perfectly silent. He let her hallow words hang in the cool summer air as he struck his hands together.

 

"We find a Catholic Church," he said when her eyes caught the first sign of a spark. He paused, grimacing, and then the grass sprung to life. A small orange glow filled the air. "You can talk to your priest."

 

"Thank you," she said softly. He grabbed some twigs and rested it stop the grass. He blew gently, coaxing it to life. 

 

"Wish I had my matches. My money," he grumbled. He looked up sharply at her. "You got the picture of your mama?” 

 

She reached for her skirt pocket, squeezed it, and nodded. 

 

"Good," he grunted. "Not much for goin’ back right now."

 

"Would you have?" she asked curiously. 

 

"If I could get in there, I'd of gotten it back for you," he replied. He sat back, heels digging into the earth and looked at the fire. His right hand gripped his left wrist. 

 

"You are a strange man, Frank Lawson."

 

He said nothing. He just stared out into the flames. After a few moments he leaned forward and added a log. They sat there in silence a while. Neither could sleep just yet, but there was nothing else to do. She wondered if he would take her again but he made no move to. She wondered if his lust had finally been slated, at least for the moment. 

 

"Would you have?" she suddenly asked. He looked up from the crackling wood. His hat was angled downward, blocking his face, so he had to tilt back his head to view her. 

 

"Would I have what?"

 

"Raped me. If I had resisted." 

 

He looked back down to the fire. His fingers rubbed together, wrist resting on a bent knee. He examined his fingers, picking at a dirty nail. She continued to wait. It took a her a long while to realize he would not be answering her. Time passed. She did not know how long, but soon she lowered herself to the hard ground and let her heavy eyes fall shut. 

 

Her eyes opened slowly. She was groggy, but it was still dark. The fire crackled weakly, but Frank sat before it, staring into the dying flames. Her eyes fluttered close once more. When they opened Frank was still awake only this time it was not the flames that were the object of their attention. Those icy blue eyes stared at her from across the fire and even as she looked to him he did not look away. He did not blink. She wondered if he was even awake. She wondered if he might sleep with his eyes open. But they were not the glassy gaze of a tired man. They were piercing. Attentive. Obsessive. She gazed back a long while and her eyes grew heavy again. She closed her eyes and just as a shiver ripped through her, she was asleep once more. 

 

The last time she awoke it was to the feel of a jacket being placed over her shoulders. A rough hand gently slid beneath her neck and jaw, lifted her head from the ground and slipped beneath her the cool fabric of her pink scarf. Her head was lowered once more with extraordinary care.

 

Circling around the fire he laid back down on his back. He lay still, eyes up to the stars. His fingers intertwined in his stomach, fluttered against his hands. He continued to stare up to the sky. Her eyes closed again and when they opened next, the sun was peaking up across the horizon. She smelled roasting meet, heard the crackling of a fire. Squinting through her grogginess, she turned her head to find Frank before the fire. A skinned rabbit hung across a makeshift sling and he skinned another that rested on his knee. Quickly and with great skill he relieved the animal of its skin. He examined the fur, brought it to his nose to smell, and then sliced into the gut of the little carcass.

 

"Gon' be a fine day," he greeted her as he lifted himself to his feet.

 

"Where are we going?" she asked. Already the day was warm, and she gently removed his coat from her shoulder. 

 

"North I think. North west. Find some small town where the law aint settled. Spend some time. Lie low. Find you a priest."

 

She looked up to the cloudless sky.

 

“I would like to stay some place a while,” she admitted. “I am beginning to grow tired. Sore.”

 

“You hurtin’?” he asked. She rolled her shoulders, felt the strained muscles of her legs, arm, back, and abdomen all cry in affirmation.

 

“A little,” she answered.

 

“Let me see your palms,” he ordered and came away from Bobby Lee. The horse munched at the grass happily. She tilted her hands and he examined them. The skin of her left hand was healing nicely. The skin on the right was a little angrier. One of the cuts was outlined with dead, white skin, cocooned in a sea of puffy, red flesh. She grimaced as he prodded at it gently. He took his thumb and forefinger and squeezed gently. She cried out in pain and angrily ripped her hand away from him.

 

He met her glare with one of her own and seized her wrist. He squeezed again, despite her struggle, and a little eruption of yellow and white puss came oozing from the skin.

 

“You got a high pain tolerance,” he told her.

 

“I do not simper,” she responded sharply.

 

“We’ll see bout that,” he answered and retrieved his blade.

 

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice rising more than one octave.

 

“How bad does this hurt?” he asked. “Tell me true.”

 

She looked at the gash in her palm.

 

“Rather badly,” she admitted but kept any ounce of discomfort from her voice. It had not hurt so badly until he began digging at it.

 

“You got somethin’ in it,” he told her. He lifted her hand at the wrist and raised the blade. She set her jaw and waited as he place the tip of the blade at the skin. She waited for pain, she waited for him to begin prodding violently. But he simply dragged the blade along the inner layer of the skin, and then, almost painlessly, she watched as a surprising large tiny pebble came peeking out from the blood and puss, resting on the tip of the blade. She grimaced as pain then began radiating through the skin. He squeezed again and more puss came from the cut. She crinkled her nose and bit down on her tongue. His blue eyes darted up to look at her and then back at her hand.

 

“Should it be sewn shut?” she asked him as he squeezed in tiny, gentle pulses.

 

“Nah, bad idea,” he answered. “Plus it aint so deep.”

 

When the puss no longer continued running from her skin he got to his feet. He pulled at his vest and shirt, pulling it up to reveal his abdomen. He tapped a nasty looking scar just above his left hip.

 

“That there, they sewed up on the field, got so sick, nearly died on the march north. Friend o’ mine, he was a smart one, like you, had some book learnin’. Studied up in yankee country. Took out his bayonet one night and cut through the stitch. Just like that hand there, but deeper and larger. Came pourin’ outa me like the mouth of a river. You don’t want that sewn up inside you.”

 

She examined the scar but he dropped his shirt and put his clothing back together. He scooped up his coat from beside her and threw it on. She marveled at how he was able to handle the heat dressed as he was.

 

“Some water down the way. Just about a hundred yards,” he told her. “You wan’ta wash out that hand. Get a drink. I don’t have my canteen ‘n I don’t know how long we’re gon’ be travelling.”

 

She nodded without a word. He brought her some food, which she ate with her aching hands, and then got to her feet.

 

“Which way to the water?” she asked.

 

“That way. You go on, you see or hear anythin’, you scream, and ‘member what’s gon’ happen if you run,” he reminded her.

 

“I am not going to run,” she sighed and wiped her hands carefully on her skirt. She turned to walk in the direction he had indicated.

 

“Hold up,” he called. When she turned, he was extending a gun out to her. “Take it.”

 

She examined it closely.

 

“You know how to shoot?”

 

“You aim and pull the trigger,” she answered dryly. He chuckled.

 

“I’ll give you some lessons,” he said. “Go on now. Wits about you.”

 

She moved on down toward the water. Muscles aching, palms throbbing, carefully looking at the gun in her hand, testing the weight of the trigger carefully.

 

 

Frank had Bobby Lee prepared to go when she wandered back up from the water. He had not panicked when she took longer than he anticipated. He did his very best to calm his pounding heart. A girl like her, she needed her privacy. It was the only reason he did not go stomping into the forest to retrieve her. He had beat back the frustration he felt at not being able to leave earlier. He hated wasting a day.

 

“This is not the one you used?” her voice was soft and curious behind him. He turned to look at the gun in her hands.

 

“No,” he answered and turned his back to his horse. He leaned against him with an arm resting on the saddle. He looked her over, eyes glowing, and he felt his blood heat again. He considered taking her before they set. His loins burned as he remembered bending her over and fucking her against that tree. The girl was sweeter than he could have imagined when he first spotted her on that train. He had imagined that he would need to reign himself in to protect her fragile sensibilities. He never could have imagined that the rougher he was with her, the more she fell to pieces in his hands.

She had pulled her hair back, a few wispy strands hanging loose at the side of her face. Her face was been washed clean and still she looked, even in the rather common dress, so very much like a lady. He was once more filled with need for her. He would find a place where they could stay a while.

 

He got her up onto the horse and hopped up behind her. He had kicked out the fire, wiped away the outlines of their bodies in the dirt, and attached the skins of the rabbit to the back of the saddle.

 

“Ready, darlin’?” he asked. His face was close to hers and he smiled at her when she nodded. He leaned in, eyes closing, and breathed in deeply. She shied away, but there was nowhere else she could go. He chuckled and took her chin, bringing her lips to his. She let him kiss her but her patience was worn thin. She squirmed and he relished the feel of her. He kissed her more deeply, breaking off just when she decided to submit.

 

“You feelin’ fresh today?” he asked. “hmm?”

 

He pulled at a dry piece of skin from his lip and looked over her face. Everything about her was perfect. Her smooth, creamy skin, the gently sloped and delicate nose, her soft pink lips, those big brown eyes.

 

“I do not wish to be mauled at will,” she muttered.

 

“I think you do,” he smiled and clicked his tongue. Bobby Lee began venturing forward and they left their little camp behind.

 

“Is there anywhere safe here to swim?” she asked.

 

“Swim?” he asked.

 

“I used to love to swim, when I was a girl. At the fish pond or in the ocean. I miss the water.”

 

“I can find a place,” he said.

 

They moved on a few minutes. The sun was climbing into the sky, burning hot.

 

“Never seen the ocean,” he said. Those big brown eyes widened as she turned on him.

 

“Never?” she asked.

 

“I can swim. Been in plenty o’ rivers. Try ‘n picture it sometimes. Just can’t see it.” 

 

“Remember the strip of desert… the day we met?” she asked.

 

“Day we met, I ‘member only those pretty brown eyes.”

 

“You certainly remember more than that,” she snapped. It brought a smile to his lips.

 

“I remember,” he finally answered, squinting into the sun.

 

“It is like that, but with water. Endless, vast. Beautiful,” she said. “I hope to see it again someday.”

 

I’ll take ye, he thought. You want the ocean, I’ll give you the ocean.

 

“How big a house you live in?” he asked.

 

“There were fifty five rooms in total,” she answered.

 

“Well goddamn,” he answered.

 

“Not so large. My dearest friend as a girl came from a home with nearly seventy.”

 

“The Newarks, they had a big’n too,” he said.

 

“They owned the plantation your father worked for?” she asked. He answered with a nod. “Your father? Was he the overseer?”

 

He laughed. He actually threw his head back and laughed.

 

“No, darlin’,” he answered. “Overseers are a bit better off than we were.”

 

“What did he do?” she asked. “I will admit, I’ve little understanding of the running of a plantation.”

 

“Oh, odd jobs. Worked a small plot o’ land too. Made a few pennies a month,” he answered. “Kept food on the table. The Newarks, they owned ‘bout a hundred slaves. Big plantation. Aint no work to be had. Why pay a man when you got one to do twice the work for free? They was good people though. They made sure my daddy had work in the winter.”

 

“Does he live?” she asked.

 

“Nah,” he answered. “We was fishin’. One day.” He clapped his hands in front of him loudly. He earned a jump from the slender body before him. “Dropped dead.”

 

“Of what?” she asked.

 

“Don’t know.”

 

“What did the doctor say?” she asked. He chuckled at her. His eyes glimmered affectionately as they looked over her face. He felt a flare of contempt. It simply demonstrated everything he hated about those of her class. But there was such a genuine look about her now, he could not feel anger at her ignorance.

 

“Darlin’,” he said gently. “We couldn’t afford to pay no doctor to tell us our dead daddy was dead. Dug him a hole and put him in the dirt.”

 

“And your mother?”

 

Frank looked up to the sun. He felt a stab to his chest as he thought of his mother.

 

“They’re all dead,” he muttered.

 

“All?” she asked.

 

“You wan’ a new dress?” he asked in return. She looked down.

 

“I would not refuse one,” she answered. An image popped into his head, one of her in a corset and stockings, dressed up like a pretty little whore, seated on his lap. Maybe someday. When they could be somewhere safe.

 

His body hummed to life.

 

“You’re gon’ be the death o’ me,” he told her. “Just gon’ drain the life out o’ me.”

 

“You must appreciate the amount of money,” she whispered, his lips finding her neck. Her head tilted back. “Five hundred dollars I mean. It is an incredible sum.” 

 

His annoyance flared. His anger bubbled. He pressed his nose to her throat and inhaled deeply.

 

He said nothing. He pushed the collar of her shirt to the side, tugging insistently, he pressed his lips to her shoulder. He sucked on her skin, gripping her hips, and pulled her back towards him.

 

“It’s a lot of money,” she said again. Her voice was breathy and desperate. He slid a hand around, sliding it between her thighs. He rubbed at her above the skirt, prodding gently. She was warm. Her thighs pressed together tightly. He tilted her head back. Those big brown eyes gazed up toward him, searching. “It’s a lot of money,” she whispered. He lowered his mouth to hers. He pressed his fingers to her more firmly.

 

A breathy moan escaped her as he plundered her mouth. She shuddered against him, deliciously, letting him do as he pleased.

 

“Hot water,” she said, her heart leaping. “And soap!”

 

Frank turned his head to look at the stall.

 

“Once we got a room. I’ll get’cha some.”

 

She turned her head with a little frown and looked over him.

 

“You might buy yourself a bucket,” she replied. “And a razor.”

 

“Hhng,” he grunted. She turned back around and looked over their temporary home. A week at least. That was what he promised. She prayed it would be so. She would give anything to sleep through the day.

 

The town was a mixture of proper buildings, half built structures, and a mass of tents. They were in an area that was not quite desert, not quite green. The earth was covered in grass. Small, yellow bushes spattered the landscape. There was a mass of trees not far from them. A river beyond that. But in the distance was the same towering red rock she had gotten to know so well in the desert.

 

They stopped at the stables, a fixed structure, and dropped off Bobby Lee with a few threatening words from Frank. The horse, he informed the trembling stable hand, would be taken well care of and should Frank return to find it had been given to someone else, he would have his tongue cut out and fed to him. The man nodded and promised heartily the horse would be well cared for.

 

Once done they walked down the main strip of the budding town. People were coming in with their wagons, children aboard, squeezed in amongst the items they had brought to trade or sell at market. It filled her with a sense of relief, to be in a place that seemed proper society, no matter how lacking the law might be.

 

A man leered at her as she stopped at the corner store. She spotted the rotting grin before she could properly examine what lay inside. The man spit into the dirt and stepped toward her. She hurried back to Frank’s side, glancing over her shoulder at the frightening man. When she caught back up to him she slipped her arm in his, looking around with a frown.

 

“Stay close now,” he ordered. She nodded and tightened her grip on her arm. To anyone looking their way, they would appear a charming young couple come west for work. “Wait here,” he said as he stopped outside of a saloon. She frowned, grabbing onto his arm with a tight grip as he tried to leave her side.

 

“Did you not just tell me to stay close?” she asked him. “Do not leave me out here.”

 

“Darlin’,” he said, gripping her chin. “I won’t be two minutes. Someone comes near you, just scream. Someone’ll come get you and I’ll be right through that door.”

 

She glanced back in the direction of the leering man. She found him leaning against the corner store door. He brought her attention back to him.

 

“You trust me, Arabella?” He asked and swept a strand of hair over her shoulder. He pinched it, running his thumb and forefinger down the loose strands, and then tucked it behind her ear. She nodded. He ran a calloused thumb over her bottom lip. He gave her a quick wink and then stepped in through the doors.

 

She waited, standing with her back against the wall. She looked skeptically to everyone that walked by, but no one paid her any mind. In no time at all, Frank was stepping out of the saloon, a smile on his face.

 

“My lady,” he said, offering her his arm. She took it and looked into the swinging doors.

 

“What did you do?” she asked.

 

“They got a nice little hotel up here,” he told her. “I’m gon’ put you in a nice room.” He put his lips close to her ear. “‘n then I’m gon’ fuck you right into the mattress. Come tomorrow, darlin’, you won’t be able to walk.”

 

“Must you be so crass,” she breathed.

 

“‘Course,” he smirked. “When it gets you so hot ‘n bothered.”

 

“It most certainly does not,” she replied haughtily.

 

“Don’t it?” he asked. He examined his shirt sleeve. Her face colored and she turned way in disgust. Vile proof of her shame still stained his coat cuffs. He’d forced his hand up her skirts, plunged his fingers inside of her. And once more she had acted the whore. She ground her hips into him. She moaned into her mouth. She was not at all the good woman her dearest Thaddeus deserved.

 

“No,” she replied sharply. She ripped her arm away from him and stomped a few feet ahead. 

 

“Now where you runnin’ to?” he asked with infuriating amusement.

 

“I simply wish to walk ahead of you,” she replied.

 

“I just think you wan’ get to bed that much faster.”

 

She whirled around but he did not stop until he was right before. She arched her head upward, neck aching. He smirked down at her, gold teeth glinting.

 

“What’re you gon’ do, darlin’?” he asked. She stared up at him. He reached up and touched her cheek with a rough hand. “You save the attitude for tonight, yeah?”

 

He touched her lower back and pulled her a step or so closer. He still kept her at a respectable distance.

 

“We gon’ have fun tonight, you and I,” he murmured. She squeaked in outrage as he pat her hard on the bottom, nudging her along. “Now get.”

 

She stumbled along, cheeks burning with indignation.

 

“Right here,” he said. She paused and turned toward him, a frown on his face. He raised his eyebrows and pointed to the building before her. She put her hands on her hips and gave a sour smile.

 

“Please tell me, with what do you intend to purchase these gifts?” she asked.

 

He paused before her again and gave a sour smile of his own. He raised the small leather purse before her.

 

“How did you …?” she asked and then he lightly tapped her on the nose with it.

 

“Come on now, Mrs. Newark,” he winked. He gently guided her into the shop with a hand on her lower back. They were immediately greeted by a kind man with sleepy blue eyes. He waddled toward them, holding his arms up happily. His apple cheeks were flushed brightly.

 

“Weclome!” he spoke gruffly and immediately erupted into a mess of coughs. “Welcome.” He blustered out. “How may I help you two fine people today?”

 

“Just lookin’ta buy my beautiful wife here a new dress,” he said. “And some uh…” he looked over at her. His eyes raked down her body. He leaned in toward the store owner and murmured, “Some personals.”

 

“Ah, yes, of course of course, come see, come see,” he said. “What price are you looking for?”

 

Frank did most of the talking, but he was quite insistent that she pick out what dress she liked, but as he examined the undergarments, he picked what he liked himself.

 

It was bagged up, he got them a room, and then brought them down for something to eat. She hated to admit it, and despite it still not being of the caliber she was accustomed to, she was quite fond of the dress he had purchased her.

 

With stolen money. He did not buy it. Someone else did.

 

She sat down at the table, a little smile bubbling to her lips as he ordered them a bottle of sherry. He grinned at her as he leaned back in his chair. She waited anxiously, like a child at Christmas, as the bottle was brought and her glass poured. She sipped at it happily, looking around the room.

 

“Told you I’d take care of you,” he murmured. She looked up and pursed her lips. She rested her glass down and straightened her shoulders.

 

“By thievery?” she asked. His eyes narrowed slightly. “That is not providing, sir.”

 

“Aint it?” he asked. 

 

“No,” she responded.

 

His eyes darted over to the side.

 

“I’ll make you some money,” he said. She looked over to the side. A man was taking money and writing down names. A frown brought her lips downward. 

 

“What is that?” she asked.

 

“Fisticuffs.”

 

“Fi-Fi-Fisticuffs?” She sputtered. “Fighting? No, certainly not.”

 

“I’m a good fighter.” 

 

“You will not engage in such barbarity,” she scolded. She hesitated, glancing in the direction. She wondered how he might look, beating another man with his bare fists, bare chested and brutish muscles flexing and veins bulging. She looked away from the table, blinking the image from her brain as her mouth turned dry and her throat ached. “What will become of me should you lose and fall injured? Or die. I’ve heard tell of men dying in such events.”

 

“Sure have,” he agreed.

 

“You would risk me so?” she asked. He smiled silently a moment, glanced at the table and then drank his port in a single, large gulp.

 

“Course not,” he answered. “But,” he said, pouring himself another glass. “I wouldn’t lose.”

 

She looked away from the heated confidence in his eyes. He took a swig and dug into his bread. He glanced over into the corner and jerked his head.

 

“How’s that?” he asked. She turned her head and watched a group of men throwing daggers at a wall. She gave a little frown.

 

“As long as they aren’t throwing them at you,” she said.

 

“I’m touched,” he told her. He stopped by her. He gently tapped her chin. “You want money, darlin’? I’m gon’ make you some money.”

 

He walked over to the group of men with a bright smile. He clapped them on the shoulders. He made fast friends. She observed silently, sipping at her sherry greedily. 

 

The men laughed at something he said and she strained to hear. Frank held up a finger, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a bill. He slapped it on the table emphatically, giving it another slap of the hand, and straightened, pointing to the wall. The men examined the bills as he pointed a hand toward her. 

 

“That’s my lady,” he told them. “Say hello, Abby.”

 

She waved shyly as the men all removed their hats in silent greeting.

 

“I’ll make that bet,” one man said and slapped down a bill of his own.

 

“And I.”

 

“You a Johnny reb then, huh?” one man asked. He put down a bill of his own. 

 

“Born and bred,” Frank answered.

 

“I was with Pickett,” one man said. “Before the charge, a course. Got two bullets in my leg. Can’t use it anymore.”

 

He slapped his thigh.

 

“Went to one a those Yankee Prisons. Didn’t see ‘Ginia ‘gain till the war was lost.”

 

“My lady,” Frank smiled. He looked over at her fondly. “She’s a Yankee.”

 

He picked up a dagger and examined it. Tossed it in the air by the handle and caught it by the blade.

 

“She likes us southerners,” he told his new friends.

 

“A fine thing,” man said.

 

“Yeah but don’t you look too long. That’s my girl you hear,” he looked around to the others in the room. “Y’all hear? She’s my girl now, so you can look a second but not too long now!”

 

He called it to the entire dining area and she blushed deeply in horror. Everyone gave her a wave, some raising glasses to toast her beauty.

 

“Now, right there, yeah? The red circle there?”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

“’N we said… what? Thirty paces?”

 

Some men chuckled and he went to the wall, taking large strides. He counted up to thirty and stopped. He turned and without a moment of hesitation threw the blade by the handle. It clattered against the wall and fell to the floor. The room roared with laughter. Frank stared at the wall a moment, looking dejected, shoulders hunched. Arabella felt a sting of embarrassment on his behalf.

 

“Nice try, grayback!” a northerner laughed. He stepped up and threw the blade. It stuck into the wall a foot or so from the red dot. Another man stepped up, hitting close to the mark. Frank crossed his arms and glanced toward her. She looked away, full to the brim with embarrassment.

 

“Another shot, another shot!” he said as the winner collected his bills. Frank retrieved a paper and placed it on the table. The other men looked at each other and agreed. He could see the look in the northerners eyes and felt a sting of anger.

 

Poor, stupid country bumpkin, he was thinking. She tried to get Frank’s attention. He had nothing to worry about. They could eat and go upstairs. He had nothing to prove. But Frank was focused and he took the blade.

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” the northerner laughed as he approached. He took the blade from him. He handed it to him blade first. “Throw it this way.”

 

The condescension sent Arabella’s face aflame. A few people gave her pitying glances. The poor northern beauty married to the country idiot.

 

“This way?” Frank asked, eyebrows lifted. The other’s all nodded. He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and blew. This time, the blade stuck into the wall, but nearly two feet from the red dot.

 

“Better!” someone called cruelly. Frank turned with a smile. Other’s laughed at his ignorance.

 

Arabella watched him a moment. Slowly, her eyes began to narrow. The look on his face, the lift of his eyebrows. It was not Frank Lawson.

 

“Another, another,” Frank said. “I’m getting’ better yeah.”

 

He looked at her.

 

“I spend another few papers, darlin’?” he asked. She nodded dumbly. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned as a young woman passed by.

 

“Well, he’s awful handsome,” she laughed. Arabella fought off the urge to reach out and slap her across her face. She turned back instead, and watched Frank go through another round. At this rate, he was going to do nothing but lose everything they had just earned… stolen.

 

This time, the knife bounced off the wall again. Frank let out a deep sigh. He cursed softly and kicked a nearby chair.

 

“Look, I’m good at this, yeah?” he told everyone. “I did it all the time in my fightin’ days.”

 

“Been a good few years since the war ended,” he was reminded. They played through till the sun had set and the crowed grew larger. Frank lost nearly all their money, but still he pressed on.

 

“Can’t play no more,” Frank said as it grew later. The alcohol had begun to flow freely. Frank had not had a drop. He mumbled dumbly, “Can’t lose no more.”

 

“Good throwin’ sir!” a kind man called drunkenly. 

 

The northerner shushed him and he stepped forward. He had a grin on his face. Arrogant and predatory, but full of amusement. 

 

“How much money you got?” he asked. Frank’s eyebrows rose again and he fumbled with the money he withdrew from his back pocket. The northerner glanced over his shoulder and waved a hand at a silently protesting friend. 

 

“Who’d you rob?” someone laughed through his own joke.

 

“Jest sold my skins,” he said. Arabella suddenly realized he had changed his accent. Though he certainly spoke with a deep southern twang, it never held this level of imbecility. She bit her lower lip and her eyes darted between Frank and the northerner.

 

“Got ten dollars left here,” he said. He looked up.

 

“One more round! For the ten spot.”

 

“Oh, oh, I don’t know,” Frank said. He looked pained. “Can’t lose my last ten, I got my lady. I uh… you know it just aint worth it.”

 

“How’s this. I put down twenty. Jesse, Jesse, you put down twenty?”

 

The two communicated silently. Jesse shook his head but the northern took the money. They spoke to each other hushed and Frank turned to look at her. They locked eyes a moment and he turned. More and more people joined in, finding it gleefully funny to trick the poor fool out of his last ten dollars. Arabella felt her anger begin to simmer once more.

 

Soon, a fat wad of bills rested on the tables.

 

“Come on, one more,” the northerner said. Frank looked unsure. The rest of the dining area cheered with enthusiasm. It only angered her further.

 

“I guess so,” he said. He looked at the money. “That’s a lot o money.”

 

“All yours if you make it,” the northerner said and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on now.”

 

He bit his lower lip and then sighed sheepishly.

 

“Yeah, yeah, one more,” he said and slapped down the ten. He took the blade in his hand and suddenly the guise vanished. Only Arabella could see it and a smile came to her lips. He gripped the blade differently, he walked a greater distance away, and with a single, fluid motion, threw the lade. It flew through the air and with a loud thwack, stuck deeply into the wood. Dead center in the red dot. The room fell silent and Frank stared at it triumphantly.

 

“Fucking bastard!” one man shouted angrily.

 

“Bastard played us,” Jesse spat to his northern friend, staring dumbly at the wall.

 

“You dirty son of a bitch,” the northern seethed. Frank walked to the table and collected the wad of bills. He looked up innocently.

 

“Well I said I was mighty good in the army,” he grinned. The northerner took three fast steps forward. He swung wildly and Frank jerked his head to the side. He countered the blow and landed a hard punch to his nose. He dropped down hard and his friends pulled him away.

 

“Come on, Jack, lose with some dignity,” Jesse scolded. Frank grabbed the bills and then tipped his hat to the room.

 

“Thank you kindly, friends, for your donations!” he called. She had a terrible fear everyone was going to turn on them. That his dirty scheme would be greeted with disdain and fury. To her surprise, everyone seemed elated by the sudden turn of event. They had paid for a show. Some hollered in support. Others clapped. A handful made toasts. He bowed deeply and walked toward her. With a smile, he outstretched a hand.

 

“My lady,” he said. “I’m ready for bed.”

 

The weight in his words heated her skin. She stood and the sherry had the world spinning. She looked over and found the bottle empty. She stumbled into him and he caught her.

 

“Now, did I earn this, darlin’?” he asked, holding up the bills.

 

She nodded silently. He escorted her upstairs, waving to his adoring fans.

 

“No one will attack us?” she asked. He laughed.

 

“Gon’ lock the door tight. ‘N I aint done nothin’ they didn’t try themselves.” 

 

He unlocked their rooms and nudged her inside. He lit the gas lamp and settled at the little table to count his money. She moved over to the window and opened it, breathing in the fresh air. She turned back and he was leaning back in his chair, smiling smugly.

 

“How much did we get?” she asked. He quirked an eyebrow and threw down bills as he counted.

 

“Give me a number,” he said.

 

“A hundred dollars,” she guessed eye. His smile widened. “Two hundred?” He laughed. Her eyes widened. She tried to think of how crowded the room was, how many people had offered up money. The entire town had seemed to gather toward the end, throwing in money happily. “Three hundred?” 

 

She looked at the bills and then at the coins. Pennies, nickels, silver dollars.

 

“Four hundred?” she asked, voice rising.

 

“Five hundred and thirteen dollars,” he grinned. Her eyes widened. He leaned back. He looked over the coins.

 

“One, two, three,” he counted out the coins. It came to roughly thirteen dollars. “Five hundred…” he mused. “Five hundred.”

 

He smiled at her and her own smile faltered.

 

“That’s a lot of money,” he said to her. She stared silently. Her throat hurt. He lifted the top of the gas lamp. His eyes were on hers. “A fortune.”

 

He took a bill and wrapped it up. He slid it into the lamp. She watched as the bill was set aflame. He picked up another bill as he withdrew the first bill from the lamp. Carefully, he lit the new with the old.

 

“Five hundred dollars,” he murmured. She watched him, so very calmly, light the bills on fire. Every once in a while, he would murmured, “Five hundred dollars.”

 

“A fortune,” he grinned as he lifted the last bill. He went aflame and he looked at her. He dropped the bill to the flaming heap on the table. He looked at her.

 

“I spit on five hundred dollars. I piss on it,” he told her. She stared at the burned bills. “For you?” he asked incredulously. He shook his head. His contempt was undeniable. “Five hundred dollars aint shit.”

 

She looked from the ash on the table to Frank. He was leaning back in the chair a smile budding on his lips.

 

“Now, take off that dress for me, sweetheart. Real slow.”

 

Her hands rose and she plucked at the buttons of her blouse with trembling hands. His eyes were hot as he watched her. She would glance toward him, the desire she saw spurred her on.

 

She closed her eyes and angry tears escaped. One fell down the bridge of her nose, but it was not the man before her that was the focus of her pain, but the man she loved most in this world. Her dowry alone was more than five hundred dollars. Could he not even spare her dowry?

 

There is an explanation. There is.

 

Slowly she removed her undergarments. She did not stop until she was entirely undressed. She waited and lifted her chin. Her lips trembled as she raised her face to look at him. His eyes moved over her slowly. His tongue wetted his lower lip.

 

“Come here, pretty dove,” he said gently. He held out his hand, eyes shining with gentle, obsessive, affection. She sucked in a breath and walked to him. She fell into him, leaning into him, sinking into him, relishing in his strength. She felt his need, his desire, and lust and she let it overwhelm her. She used it as a shield and for a short while, she was able to forget about how little five hundred dollars really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Two things!
> 
>  
> 
> I know I promised Thad. This chapter is way longer than I thought it would be. He will make an appearance next chapter without a doubt!
> 
>  
> 
> Secondly. Five hundred dollar is really an insane amount of money back that. However, considering Thad and Arabella’s insane wealth, five hundred dollars would not be much to them. It will be spoken of more later on, but I don’t want anyone being nitpicky about it in this chapter. It’s all relative.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to those who took the time to offer your reviews and support! Seriously, means the world to me! I do wish I got more comments on this site, but the other places I post it to leave lots of feedback, so it keeps me inspired. :-)
> 
> And a special thanks to Haruza for the regularity, depth and thoughtfulness you put into your comments :D
> 
>  
> 
> Let me know!


	13. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am starting law school in a month and I am in the process of moving to Boston, so I've been suuuper busy. I very much hope you like this chapter. Let me know!
> 
> Also, I purchased a newlaptop, but I haven't purchased word yet. As a result, I wrote this entirely on google docs. I did my best proofreading, but google docs is strange (at least to me). If there are any glaring mistakes, please shoot me a message. 
> 
> My email is mindwideopen1990@yahoo.com. 
> 
> Thanks!

Well dressed, mild mannered, methodical, calm, practical. Not one quick to anger. Not one quick to any real emotion. It took a lot to rile up the Yankee businessman. Even now, standing in above average heat even for the region, in his well tailored and constricting cream suit, straw hat failing to block out the heat the scorching sun beat down on the poor souls below, he remained frighteningly calm. He stared out at the horizon as the clerks bustled about in a frenzy. His chocolate eyes were thoughtful but calm. His manner tended to frighten those he came in contact with, especially those that he had reason to find displeasure with. It was unnatural, a man to be so calm. But it was not an advanced ability to conceal that kept the tall, lean figure so neatly cut in the bustle of dirty, dusty, farmers, fur traders, Indians, and railroad workers. It was simply the lack of any true ire.

 

He reached for his pale blue vest. He collected his gold pocket watch. A flick of a well manicured thumb and the cold facing popped open. To those around him it could be nothing more than a passively aggressive means of displaying his refined anger. In truth, it was a way of passing the time. It was a genuine curiosity. Twelve o’clock. He squinted upward. He lifted a hand to block out the sun. 

 

“Three past twelve,” he murmured. Carefully, with slow measured motions, he wound the clock. Satisfied he turned back to the bench. His eyes moved carefully from person to person. He would miss his train if this continued much longer. 

 

“Just one more place, sir!” a clerk called. He lifted up a finger and scratched his nose, small and sloping, downturned. He lowered his hands to examine a nail. There was a smudge of dirt along his right thumb. He frowned and slid one thumb nail beneath the other. Once clean, he looked back up and waited silently. 

 

“Beggin’ pardon, sir,” the Irishman came hurrying from the east porch. “What was the name again?” 

 

There was a moment of pause. An angry silence to indicate displeasure to those who did not know him. A simple moment to consider the question and its implications in reality. 

 

“Thaddeus Burke,” he answered. The man nodded and disappeared again. He looked back to the pocket watch. Impatiently watching the time tick by to the anxious clerk shuffling papers in the corner. Just a sadly resigned gaze to a lost love in truth. A portrait that her parents still did not know she had stolen for him before his journey west. Pretty and young, only fifteen by photograph, she smiled happily. So rare in photography, but Arabella always smiled, no matter how long she needed to sit there, no matter how long her face started to ache.  _ If this is how the world shall remember me,  _ he recalled her saying as he watched the Dupont’s ready for their annual family portrait,  _ then they shall remember me as the one that smiles.  _

 

A small smile came to his thin lips. A tiny freckle darkened a little dot on the right side of his upper lip. He felt a painful emptiness in his chest, his sternum trying to press down into it. He snapped the clock shut before his chest had the chance to cave in completely. The grimace on his face the impatient anger of a wealthy yankee aristocrat. The painful agony of a man suffering a devastating loss. 

 

“Found ‘em, Mr. Birch.”

 

“Burke,” he murmured but his soft voice went by unnoticed. The trunk was dropped down on the floor with a loud thud. The carpet bag thrown on top. He recognized them as his. “I’m taking the one o’clock train south. To Sante Fe.”

 

“Course, sir.” 

 

“It will be on the train?” 

 

“Sure will be.” 

 

He ran his thumb over the facing of his clock and then slid it back into his vest. 

 

“A place I might enjoy a drink?”

 

“Fat cow, may-be… or the Dancing Cat… rough places though, sir,” he said. Thaddeus nodded to himself, slow jerky movements. 

 

“The train stops just to the other side?” he asked. The man nodded and slipped some tobacco between his lip and gum. Thaddeus turned and moved across the platform. He walked with slow steps, his strides rather short. His head hardly bobbed as he walked. His head straight, chin parallel with the floor, his eyes were always angled downward, carefully examining each spot before he placed his foot down. 

 

He lowered himself down to the bench and waited for the train. He stared straight ahead, looking toward the trees in the distance. He longed for the shade. He was beginning to grow warm. He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiped his forehead. Arabella liked the heat because she could go to the ocean. She would not have liked it here. He only wished she could have seen California. The house he built for her. She would have been happy. 

 

His gaze was far away. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly. He took out his watch again and opened it. He could only bare to look at her smiling face so long. He snapped it shut and motioned for a young boy with newspapers beneath his arms. He gave him a penny for the paper and a nickel to keep. The boy’s eyes widened. He stared at him, unsure if it was a mistake or a trick. Thaddeus opened the paper, the boy forgotten. Cold indifference to a grateful child to some. Simple ignorance in reality. 

 

He opened the paper and searched for news of the East Coast. The happenings of this dreadful cesspool interested him very little. He read a little bit of the still troublesome south. This Ku Klux Klan that was wreaking havoc wherever they went. He had never hated the southerner before. He saw what the war did. While in school he walked through a  hospital. But he understood. He felt the North had violated the sacredness of the Constitution. 

 

“‘That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed _,_ ’” A fellow student from Virginia had climbed up onto the table at a mutual friend’s small get together, copy of the Declaration in his hand. “That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.” He stood tall, face red, vein pulsing in his forehead. “ _We do not consent!”_

 

It had made perfect sense to him. It was their right. It was the right of every American, no the duty, to rebel against a tyrannical government. The south had deemed their government tyrannical. The government was surely not the judge of whether or not it has grown tyrannical. Had the people not made that decision? It was an unpopular opinion in his region of the country. He fought with his father and brothers, his mother would shake her head and leave the room, too angry to speak. He never spoke a word of it to Arabella. It would have angered her… her brother off to fight. 

 

He stopped reading. He looked up to the trees. That was why he no hated the southern man. Once had stolen from him the love of his life. Kind, gentle, sweet, Arabella. Modest and timid, god fearing, obedient. Everything a man could want in a wife. 

 

The horn of the train blared. He looked to his right. His eyes were still far away. They were not bloodshot, but the skin surrounding it was painted pink. The train cut through the haze, black smoke coming from the top in a dark plume. He rose and tucked the paper beneath his arm. The irishman came hurrying by with a cart, his belongings in the front. 

 

“Right here for you, sir!” he called cheerily. Thaddeus raised a hand and offered a smile. He passed him again as Thaddeus prepared to board the train. He placed a few pennies in the man’s pocket. The Irishman beamed, thanked him kindly, but Thaddeus was already holding onto the bar, pulling himself up to the first step. 

 

He presented his ticket and gave a silent smile to the man that offered to lead him to his private car. He stared at the countryside as it zoomed by the window. Eyes far away, he fought off the desire to close his eyes and sleep. If he allowed himself a rest now, he would not find sleep tonight. 

 

It was just past six when he arrived at Sante Fe. He slowly wiped the crumbs from his lunch off of his cream colored pants. He waited patiently for everyone else to file off. He was not the type to demand preference. He would not force others to wait for him, but he did not care for crowds either.  When he saw the last of the stragglers leave the car he stood, picked up his hat from beside him, and placed it on his head. He traveled with nothing else. Other’s thought him odd, seated alone in a car, staring out the window for hours upon hours. Not a book, a notebook, a sketchbook, a map. Just his thoughts to pass the time. It was when he did most of his best thinking. 

 

He moved down the steps of the train and walked over to the clerk’s office.  He reached into his pocket and retrieved a crumped piece of paper. He stared at it a moment. The clerk stared impatiently but Thaddeus wanted to make sure he was reading his scribbled writing correctly. He laid the paper down on the desk and smoothed it carefully. 

 

“Thaddeus Burke,” he told him simply. “May I arrange for my belongings to be brought to the …” that could not be right. Surely he was reading it wrong. “The Red Savage?” 

 

He looked up. The man was nodded, unfazed by the name of the hotel. Thaddeus retrieved a dollar and placed it on the man’s books. 

 

“Thank you,” he said with a smile. He turned and walked lazily onto the street. He walked, chin parallel with the ground, eyes down to his feet. He had not asked for directions. He stopped a passerby and retrieved the needed directions. As he found the Red Savage, a remarkably beautiful building with such a crude name, a bead of sweat trailed down his temple. He removed his hat as he entered and glanced around the dining area. There were a number of well to do men and women lounging about. There was a bar, but well dressed servers were at the ready. He spotted Christopher with little difficulty. Even dressed in his best suit, he looked nothing more than a semi-successful rancher. 

 

Christopher rose from his seat in the corner, a tired, haggard smile on his face. The smile looked more tragic than any frown Thaddeus had ever seen. Thaddeus walked toward him, feeling his own tickling in his chest. He looked to his feet again, this time to gather control of himself. He embraced his cousin warmly. 

 

“Oh, Thad,” Christopher murmured. They came out of their embrace. “How are you faring?” 

 

“Well enough. My head aches. The train in this weather was uncomfortable and my sleeping suffers when I travel. I should feel better after a night’s sleep.” 

 

Christopher blinked. 

 

“Oh, yes,” Christopher mumbled. “Come sit. I’ve ordered the special.” 

 

Thaddeus followed him to the table. He immediately reached for the ice water. He drank it down with three large gulps. He raised a finger and it was refilled. 

 

“I am so sorry Thaddeus,” Christopher told him. The agony in his voice was undeniable. The lines in his face made him look a solid decade older than he was. His hairs were now spattered with white and gray. “I am so sorry.”

 

“I do not fault you,” he answered simply. “A criminal is responsible for his actions. No other.” 

 

“But I was right there. Twice I failed to protect her. I -”

 

“I hold you no ill will. I fault you not.” 

 

Christopher nodded. He clutched his hat tightly before him, crumpled up on the table between white knuckles. His shoulders were hunched. He looked a broken man. His eyes were wetted with tears. His nose was glowing red. He widened his eyes. 

 

“I put out the initial reward from the Dupont’s. Thomas has sent word. He wants it bumped up to three thousand. He forwarded the money to have the posters printed. He wants a posse put together. He sent some money for that. I thought you could add to it. I will contribute what I have. But… I have four children. I will bring you to the printer once you’ve eaten. You can put in for your own advertisement.” 

 

Thaddeus did not interrupt Christopher. He never interrupted. He listened patiently. He was tempted to take his pocket watch out. He wanted to look at her smiling face. He fought the urge off. He touched a silver spoon, tilting it to the side. It clinked against his glass of water. He straightened it. 

 

“How… what is the expense?” he asked. “Forming a posse?” 

 

Christopher stared a moment. 

 

“I… it would depend on the length of their commission,” he answered. 

 

“And putting up these rewards… I understand her parents. I understand your guilt. But to put up a reward now, would do nothing but put innocent lives in danger. The foolish, the  _ brave _ . To form a posse… would do nothing but waste money.” 

 

Christopher’s face crumpled in uncomprehending bewilderment. 

 

“Thaddeus… Arabella. You’re betrothed -”

 

“I am fully aware,” he started off sharply. It was a rare burst of emotion. He paused a moment. He let the simmering anger slow, bubble back down within him. “Of what she was to me. And I shall forever have her in my heart.”

 

He looked up at Christopher. He stared into his eyes a long while, searching. 

 

“But tell me, Christopher,” he said softly. “What are the chances that she is still alive?” 

 

Christopher hesitated. 

 

“I think very good,” he answered. “This, this outlaw… if you saw the way he looked at her you would understand. He was obsessive.. Maniacal… but he was almost… polite. It… I cannot explain it. But if you saw. Thaddeus, if you  _ saw _ . He has this reputation, you see. Friendly Frank… the people all actually… they almost like him. Even some of those he has robbed. The authorities say it is very out of character, what he’s done. He’s never raped, those in his posse never have. Well, there has never been an account of it. Not with him present. Thaddeus the  _ look  _ in his eyes.” 

 

Thaddeus waited for him to finish. 

 

“So you base your belief of her well being on this  _ criminal’s  _ reputation?” Thaddeus asked. “No one expected he would abduct a well to do lady either. Is that not what you communicated to me? Yet he did.” 

 

“Everyone knows he took her. If… he would have no reason to kill her,” Christopher said. Thaddeus looked on him with pity. The poor man was being eaten apart with guilt. He was grasping at straws. 

 

“It has been weeks. Who can say she even still with him.  _ If  _ she were alive.” 

 

“And what if she isn’t?” Christopher spat. “What if he … what if he…” he hushed his voice. “Raped her. And then dropped her off at some brothel somewhere. What if she’s -”

 

His voice broke off. He shook his head and stared at the table. 

 

“We have to find her.” 

 

Thaddeus watched the server approach with their food. He waited until it was placed before him. 

 

“You are right,” Thaddeus murmured. He did not allow himself to entertain the image of Arabella trapped in a small, cramped room, man after man after man walking in to take their pleasure with her. “I shall use her dowry. I’ve no right to it if I do not marry her.”

 

He picked up his fork. His stomach growled angrily. Calmly, with his knife in his right hand, fork in the left, he carved into the ham. He raised a bit to his lips. 

 

“Very good,” he said. 

 

“Should I go find the sheriff?” Christopher asked, half rising from his chair. Thaddeus shook his head and leaned back so he could reached into his pocket. He retrieved his pocket watch and placed it open on the table. 

 

“Eat,” Thaddeus said. “Whatever as befallen her has already occurred. One day will make no difference.”

 

He nudged the watch so he could look at her smiling face. He felt an inkling of hope. He only hoped that if she did return, she was not too altered, not too shattered. If his greatest fears were true, then he hoped they would discover she had died a quick, painless death. 

 

“This is very well cooked,” Thaddeus praised. Christopher had just started to lower himself back into his chair. Dazed.

 

Thaddeus looked to the picture of Arabella. His chewing slowed. His hands stilled. He had hope now. Hope he had not possessed before. He looked at Arabella’s smiling eyes. Hard to see in the photograph, he used his imagination to look into her big brown eyes. The perfect wife. His heart swelled with bitter, painful hope, and he prayed. He brought another bite of succulent ham back between his lips and thought of his love. 

 

Reserved, pious, devoted, sweet, sweet Arabella. 

 

He raised a finger to garner a servant’s attention. 

 

“Claret please,” he said. “Have you had the claret, Christopher?” He rose is eyebrows. “Any good?”

 

* * *

Arabella threw her head back and cried out. Her shoulders were hunched downwards, muscles straining as she sunk her fingers into Frank’s thick head of blond hair. It was both amazed bewilderment and euphoric bliss. The water still dripped over the side of the tub, falling with heavy thuds onto the wet floor. 

 

“Anderson.” 

 

A breathy cry. Confused, frightened, but thick with pleasure. Hedonism took over shortly and she yanked at his scalp through his hair, pulling him more deeply between her quivering thighs. 

Frank had woken her just past sunrise. He had her cover up for the men bringing in the tub and the water. Warm. Not hot.  _ Don’t want hot water right now anyway,  _ he had told her. He left her to bathe in privacy. Where he went she did not know. She did not really care what he set off to do as she gazed lovingly at the tub of water. The motion of his arm raising to reveal a bar of soap did have her sending him off with arms thrown around his neck and a kiss to his stubble covered cheek. He winked, gave a little slap to her still sore bottom, and disappeared. She heard the door lock tightly as he left. 

 

His tongue flicked and she cried out again. She tossed her head side to side. Her wet hair soaked the pillow beneath her. The back of her head hit the the headboard. She hardly felt the blow that would leave a little egg on her head later. His lips closed over her and he sucked. A long, breathy moan escaped her. Her eyes screwed shut. 

 

He seemed to know exactly what he intended to do when he walked back in an hour or so after her bath had started. She had soaped herself up, rinsed herself clean, and was lounging with her arms draped over the side of the tub, her ankle propped up against the edge. Eyes closed and lips parted, she did not even open her eyes when she heard a key in the lock of the door. She trusted it was Frank. She trusted Frank would not leave her here to be assaulted. 

 

The door had opened and closed, there was another sound of the tumblers turning, and then his boots crossing the floor. Her brown eyes fluttered open happily, finding him seated on the edge of the bed, arm against the bedpost. He had a small smile on his face and he looked her over, a tiny shake to his head.  

 

_ Y’all cleaned up? _ He asked her. She had nodded sleepily. She wanted to lay in the now cold water a little longer. He got up from the bed, crossed over to the tub with three large strides, and sunk his arms into the water. She gasped in surprise as she was heaved, soaking wet over his shoulder and thrown down onto the bed without ceremony. Her stomach was already quivering. Heat already pooling between her legs. 

 

His tongue slid inside of her and she pushed down on his head. He fought the pressure and kept his mouth pressed to hers, lapping at her greedily. His fingertips dug into her thighs firmly. A bruising grip that had her nipples tightening. 

 

_ I wan’ know what you taste like,  _ he had said. Her eyes had widened and her legs were thrown open. She had protested. Such a vile, base, sinful, depraved, vulgar act. But the moment his tongue touched her skin, her protests faded and her fingers threaded through his hair. 

 

She moaned now, biting down hard on her lower lip. Her orgasm ripped through her. Her lips parted and a high pitched but not overly loud sound slipped from her throat. Her lips remained parted, head tilted back. He let her legs drop and his cheek rested against her thigh. Tenderly, he kissed her, stubble scraping against the sensitive skin. She suddenly needed another bath, a thick sheen of sweat coating her body again. 

 

“Honey, darlin’, sweet tea, a fresh peach,” he kissed her thigh again. “None of it compares.” 

 

She nodded, catching her breath. She trailed her fingertips over the swell of her breasts. He pushed himself up from the bed and settled over her.  He kissed her deeply, forcing her to taste herself on his lips, but it was not nearly as vile as she would have thought it would be. He pulled back and tilted his head. The two gold teeth in his mouth glimmered. 

 

“I’m gon’ head out for a bit now,” he said and got up from the bed. He sauntered over to the window, leaned on the window sill and gazed out to the waking town below them. “Got some work. Not a whole lot o’ coin, but it’ll get us a hot meal tonight and a bottle o’ whiskey. I promised, didn’t I?” 

 

He grinned and turned, leaning against the sill. His arms were crossed over his chest. 

 

“You would not need to work, had you not burned the money,” she said. She looked over at the soot still smudging the table. 

 

“True. But I did. ‘N I promised you a week. Proved myself a con last night. Things start goin’ missin’ we’ll be findin’ ourselves run out or me in a noose. Don’t much like either idea.” 

 

“What will you be doing?” she asked. She sat up and pulled the sheet up to cover herself. He quirked an amused eyebrow. 

 

“Digging holes for the posts of a fence. Feel like I’m in the goddam army again,” he grumbled. “Not my type o’ life. I don’t toil the day away in the hot sun for a dollar.” 

 

“No you just rob those who do,” she answered. His lips twitched. 

 

“I take what I want,” he agreed. He meandered over to her. “Now, you can go out and look at some shops, but you got’ta stay on this strip here,” he said, motioning along the road with his finger. “‘N you got’ta stop at the butcher shop on this end and the church down there on this end, ‘n I checked. No papists there. But you can go in, but no talkin’ to the minister. They aint got that strange confessional oath.”

 

She sat up with excitement, edging toward the bed happily. He leaned forward and placed his palms on either side of her. His eyes were severe. 

 

“If you try ‘n run -”

 

“I won’t -”

 

“If you try ‘n run,” he repeated and paused. She fell silent. He leaned closer, his eyes glued on hers, gentle, yet intense. “Whoever helps you, I’m gon’ kill’em,” he murmured. “‘N I’ll make you watch. It’ll be your fault.” 

 

“I won’t -” she began again. 

 

“Hush,” he said firmly. “‘N after I kill’em, I’m gon’ punish you proper. No cries or beggin’ gon’ move me. I’ll hurt’ye. I don’t want to, but I will. Y’understand?”

 

She nodded silently. He paused and she realized it was time for her to speak. 

 

“I promise. I will not try to run,” she answered. 

 

“I believe you,” he said.  “‘Sides, you get gone from me, who’s goin’ suck on that pretty pink pussy for yuh?” 

 

He cackled at her look of outrage and placed a hard kiss to her lips. He straightened and moved on toward the door. 

 

“You’re a vile man,” she breathed, but her eyes lingered on him as he got to the door. 

 

“‘Member, not past the butcher or the church. That’s where the whore houses, gamblin’ dens, fightin’ tents are set up. Not a place for you. Yeah?”

 

She nodded. 

 

“I’ll be just east of the water tents. You’ll be able to see me from the church steps. Need anything, come callin’,” he said. She nodded again. He pointed to the table. “Take the extra coins. I took what I need. Buy what you want.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“‘N soon darlin’, not now, I know you aint ready,” he said and tapped the door frame with his palm. His tongue pressed to the corner of his lips. “You’re gon’ return the favor.”

 

She blinked for a moment. Realization sunk in. She blanched. 

 

“Never!” she cried and he cackled again. He lifted his hat from the dresser and plopped it down on his head. He tipped it. 

 

“Ma’am.”

 

“Anderson, I will not!” she cried but the door swung shut. What a vile act. Absolutely disgusting. She glanced at her bath water. Well… if he bathed thoroughly…

 

She shook her head. She lowered herself to the ground and began wiping up the water from the floor with her unused towel. Her cheeks were flushed. She could not seem to get that vile thought out of her head. 

 

* * *

Arabella went to the shops. She enjoyed looking around at the different wares. She purchased herself a cheap scarf of beautiful blue that went quite nicely with her dress and did very much to increase the aesthetic quality. She purchased next a pair of white cotton gloves, very thin and likely to rip, and a blue ribbon to attach to her hat. She smiled softly as she stood at the stall, carefully pulling the fabric, wool, not silk or even cotton, around the hat. She could always see the look on Frank’s face, the proud appreciation of her class.

 

She moved toward the church once the hat was on her head. She gazed toward the men toiling away a half mile from the little, growing town. The fence was for cattle or horses. She could see that already. With a quick glance up to the sun she looked toward the hundred or so men heaving shovels, hammers, spades, and picks over their heads. She struggled to find Frank in the group. 

 

She found him in the center of the line. He blended in well, working with the rest of them, and it did not sit well with her. She knew how much it would kill him. Working as he was, being one of many, slaving for pennies. He was a proud man. He liked to do as he pleased. But he was keeping a promise he made to her, and she was grateful to him for it. 

 

She walked over to the well providing buckets of water to passersby’s horses and purchased her own bucket of water with her last few pennies. She got halfway across the field before her arms began to ache, but she kept her steps measured and forced herself to keep from trembling. She ignored a few whistles as she went, focusing on Frank’s back. His shirt was discarded. Lying on the grass with her pink scarf. She paused as she observed him. Muscles rippled each time he lifted the spade above his head. He was lean, but solid. His muscles not that of a Greek statue she had seen in portraits, but far from the skinny pale bodies of her brother and cousins at the old swimming hole. 

 

“Gimme some o’ thay girlie!” someone called. Her chin darted to her right and she picked up the book, holding it close. Frank turned with a tired frown, sweat glistening down the fine smattering of blond hair on his chest. 

 

“Get your own woman to bring you water,” Frank snapped. “This’n’s mine.” 

 

Frank dropped the spade and walked toward her. He wiped his forehead with a budding smile. 

 

“Look at you,” he said. She tried to smother the proud smile. “How you do it, hmm?” 

 

His shoulders and back were turning red, but his face looked no different. He was used to spending all day in the hot sun. His skin was sun weathered. 

 

“I spent the last of the money on the water, but I ordered that the bathwater remain for you to use when you return.” 

 

He crouched down and rolled his eyes. He scooped some up in his palms, splashed his face, and then began to drink. 

 

“Is that so?” he asked. He looked up at her, squinting into the sunlight. Her eyes were suddenly drawn to the scar tissue wrapped around his neck. 

 

“What are you doing?” she asked, crouching down on the other side of the bucket. 

 

“Drinkin’,” he answered before bringing the next mouthful to his lips. “Or am I sposed’ta bathe in this now?”

 

She looked around and then turned her gaze back to him. She motioned to her own throat. 

 

“You think that is a common mark?” she whispered. 

 

“Aint nothin’ bout it in the posters,” he muttered. 

 

“No, but your name is… I am sure people, past women,” she spat it out, “would know of it.” 

 

“Don’t be scared darlin’,” he smiled. “No one’s takin’ you from me.” 

 

He reached out to touch the side of her neck but she got to her feet, angry. He rose slowly. He motioned for his clothes on the ground and she handed them to him. She walked closer as he put the shirt on, wrapping the scarf around his neck. 

 

“Gon’ kill me in this heat,” he told her. 

 

“I have no desire to find myself raped,” she whispered. 

 

“You need’ta have more faith in me.”

 

“Water friend?” someone asked. Frank looked toward him with a scowl. 

 

“Piss off.” 

 

“You got a whole bucket!” 

 

“Fine then, a dime ‘n you can have a drink.” 

 

“The hole bucket didn’t cost a dime!” 

 

“Then go get your own.” 

 

Some others were turning to look. 

 

“Ander-Andrew,” she said. He looked at her with an amused lift to his brow. 

 

“Abby?” 

 

She motioned to the man. 

 

“Fine. But only ‘cause my lady has a good heart. A nickel ‘n you sorry souls can have a drink.” More than twenty men came over for a drink before the work leader hurried over to get everyone back to work. It was the town’s people helping, not a corporate undertaking, and so there was little the man could do. 

 

“Look at us,” Frank smiled, slipping his hand in her skirt pocket and sliding in the coins. “Makin’ a profit. I’m a buy a nice bottle o’ whiskey tonight.” His voice was thicker now. 

 

“When will you return? I will have dinner ready when you return.” She looked up. There were clouds forming. “It might rain.”

 

He blew out air between his lips. 

 

“Dark?” he asked. “Get paid by the hour. You’re somethin’,” he paused to gently pinch her chin. “Get now.” 

 

“Should I bring the bucket?” 

 

“Leave it. I’m sure there’s more nickels to be had.” 

 

Someone cursed at him and Frank laughed. He was not one for making friends it seemed. She turned to cross the field. A cool wind came across from the west and she held her skirts as she walked. Occasionally, her head would turn to find Frank again.

* * *

 

 

She purchased dinner when the sun began to fall down over the trees in the distance. Her mistake was not realizing that was when most would be inside to order food. She waited in line for a quarter of an hour before a flamboyant and amiable gentleman from Virginia turned his head to spot her.  He ordered that the lady be brought to the front of the bar and served immediately. She smiled and gave him her thanks. He bowed deeply, made a comment about southern honor, and she was able to order a meal for her and Frank. It was ready quickly. The cooks in the backs were cooking a magnitude of food for the dinner rush. Men were beginning to flood back in from the fields, the lumber camps dispersed around the town, travelers just arriving from a long journey. Even at the best hotel in this start up town, the crowed was crushing, made up by a number of different classes and levels of wealth. 

 

She collected the food and looked to the door for Frank. He still had not returned. She moved to the stairs, carrying the plates carefully. She was bumped into by a drunk man but she managed to rescue the food that rested on the plate wobbling in her weakening wrists. She climbed the stairs, placed the plates on the ground, and fetched the key from her skirts. She was just about to put the key in the lock when the door swung open. She stumbled back in surprise. 

 

“Just comin’ lookin’ you,” he said. He bent down to collect the plates for her. “Now, when I said you could leave, I didn’t mean you could be wanderin’ about after dark.”

 

“I am not a child,” she replied. 

 

“No, you’re not,” he said. “But this is the time where things get rough in places like this.”

 

“I did not see you come in,” she followed him into the room. The lantern was lit on the table, but it appeared he had just stepped through the door. 

 

“Just got back. Thought you went to sleep on me. Put on the light ‘n saw you gone, well Jesus Christ, my heart just ‘bout stopped.” 

 

“Sorry,” she mumbled. He raised a plate to his nose and inhaled. 

 

“Christ, darlin’, I needed this,” he said and sat down at the table. He dug into the chicken with his hands, pulling apart the steaming meat with a groan. She sat down and watched him begin to devour the food on his place. She used her fork and knife, eating slowly, watching him thoughtfully. He opened his lips and breathed in deeply, cooling the steaming flesh that was burning the inside of his mouth. He smiled and picked up his knife, but he did not use it to eat with. Instead, he raised a hand and tapped the whiskey bottle at the edge of the table. 

 

“We’re gon’ play a game tonight,” he told her. 

 

“Are we?” she asked. She cut off a large piece of chicken and placed it on his plate. He stared at it a moment, then looked to her. “I did not work all day. And I had some bread for lunch.” 

He picked up the chicken and began eating again. 

 

“And we will play no game until you have bathed,” she added. Her nose crinkled. “You smell.” 

 

He raised an arm and breathed in. His own nose crinkled. 

 

“Well, wouldn’ta been so bad if you didn’t come rushin’ over demandin’ I put my shirt back on. No bath is gon’ make this shirt smell like roses.”

 

He reached down and grabbed a bundle. 

 

“Why I bought a new one.” He pointed the knife he was still holding, but not using, at her. “Just for you.”

 

“Honored,” she replied, but a genuine smile came to her lips. “What is this game?”

 

He grinned and slid his knife along the mound of beans on his plate. She stared at the fork, unsure why he did not use it. He finished them in three knife-fulls and then rose. He began removing his clothing, kicking off his boots and pulling at the scarf around his neck. He tossed them to the table and she followed, angrily picking up after him. He groaned as he sunk into the water. She moved over to the window so she did not have to see him fully naked. It still seemed terribly scandalous. 

 

She parted the curtains and opened the windows. A gloriously cool breeze wafted in. She closed her eyes. Cool air brushed her cheeks and blew back her hair. 

 

“I smell rain,” she murmured happily, tilting her head back. 

 

“Never liked the rain,” he said behind her. 

 

“I hope it rains,” she answered. “I pray to God it rains.” 

 

“You’re a strange one, darlin’.” 

 

“Don’t you ever hope for rain?”

 

“Wouldn’t live in the desert if I did,” he grunted. “A reason I didn’t come to Wyoming or Colorado.” 

“I used to love storms. When the waves of the ocean would crash up against the sea wall. The white water on the rocks. I walked out onto the rocks one day. The wind was so strong. A wave crashed up on the rock. I was almost swept out to sea.” A smile came to her lips. “My brother screamed at me. He was so angry. He didn’t tell my parents though. I’m a strong swimmer though. I would have been fine.”

 

“Not in angry water,” he said. “Got swept up by a river once. Rapids like you wouldn’t believe. Kept going under ‘n wasn’t nothin’ I could do. Only the Lord’s mercy that kept me from drownin’.  Got sucked under a log ‘n I was sure that was it. Swore I was gon’ die. Said a little prayer for my ma and my sister. Popped back up on the other side and right there was a root on the shore. Snatched it. Took me an hour to climb out.” 

 

“Did you see a bright light?” she asked. She turned to face him. He was already out of the tub, his pants on, the belt looped but unfastened. He was examining the dagger he kept in his boot. 

 

“Nah, saw ‘n angel,” he answered. He flashed a smile and gave a tilt of his head. Her eyes were drawn downward to the taught muscles of his abdomen. Beads of water slipped down a subtle line. “Come to think on it, I think it was your face I done seen.” 

 

She looked back up at him with a flash of annoyance. He laughed and knelt down by the dirty water. He sunk the blade into the water and raised it to his cheeks. She watched him shave, a grimace on his face as he used the blade. 

 

“That looks terrible,” she told him when he finished. It was patchy, parts of his cheek red. He looked up at her. 

 

“Would you rather I grow out the beard?”

 

She looked him over. 

 

“Do one more pass,” she ordered. He looked at her a moment. His eyebrows rose. Then he took the blade and obeyed. 

 

“Satisfied?” he asked. He nodded slowly, looking over his face. She walked toward him and touched his cheek. 

 

“It is still rough.”

 

“It’s a dull blade.”

 

“No, I mean, that is adequate,” she replied. 

 

“Adequate,” he said rubbing his face. He began to redress fully. 

 

“It means -”

 

“I know what it means,” he said with a gentle smile. “I’m gon’ go get some glasses.”

 

He collected the plates and left the room. She moved the tub to the corner of the room, with some difficulty, and then wandered over to the mirror. She pinked her cheeks, bringing forth a pretty blush, and used her fingers to add what curl she could to her loose strands of hair. Once satisfied she moved over to the window. She breathed in deeply, saying one more prayer for rain before Frank entered the room with glasses in hand. 

 

“I don’t know how you do it, darlin’, don’t know how you do it.”

 

She turned. 

 

“Look so beautiful.” 

 

She blushed. 

 

“Come on and sit,” he said, clinking the glasses down. She obeyed silently, looking to the whiskey bottle. She was quite in the mood to be drunk. Her once dalliance with too much alcohol had ended with vomiting and a terrible next morning, but prior to the turning of her stomach, she had quite enjoyed the feeling. He opened the whiskey and poured them each a large glass. “It’s an easy game. A good one.” 

 

He slid the glass toward her. 

 

“I ask a question. You got’ta be honest ‘n answer it. You don’t wan’ answer, you don’ have to, but then you got’ta drink.”

 

“By the end of the game you must not drink often. You will reveal all your secrets.” 

 

“That’s the idea,” he grinned. Her eyes turned wide as he raised the large glass and downed all the liquid within. He chuckled at the look on her face. “Won’t be fair otherwise. I’ve got quite the tolerance.”

 

“That would see me into my grave,” she said with appreciative wonder. 

 

“More ‘n likely,” he smiled. “I’ll cut’cha off before you get yourself sick.” 

 

“Promise?” she asked, bringing the glass to her nose. 

 

“Promise,” he said. “You wan’ start? Or wan’ be to start?”

 

“You ask first,” she said. 

 

“Alright then,” he said. He leaned back in his chair. 

 

“What’s your favorite food?” he asked. She blinked. 

 

“That’s it?” 

 

“It’s early,” he smiled. 

 

“I am quite fond of tenderloin. Though I enjoy prime rib. Or ribs.” 

 

He blinked at her. 

 

“Anything from a cow,” she said. He nodded. He was pouring his glass again. Not as full this time.

 

“I’m a fan o’ pig myself,” he said and downed the drink. 

 

“How many people have you killed?” she asked. He looked up in surprise. 

 

“Well you get right to it, don’tcha,” he said. He thought a moment, looking to the table. He picked at a scratch in the wood with a dirty, chewed nail. “eleven, nineteen… or thirty two… and that’s since I’ve been out here. Can’t tell you how many I killed in the war. Just don’t know.”

 

“Why the three numbers?” she asked. He raised a finger. 

 

“Ah, ah, ah, darlin’, one question at a time. My turn,” he said and poured himself some more whiskey. This time he let it be. “You wan’ me to eat your pussy again?” 

 

“Don’t call it that,” she breathed. 

 

“Cunt?”

 

“You needn’t use such language,” she scolded with disgust. 

 

“Answer the question or drink,” he said. She swallowed and looked to her glass. “Lie to me, by the way, ‘n you’ve got another date with my belt.” 

 

She looked up at him sharply.

 

“I liked it,” he winked. “‘N I’ll know if you’re lyin’.” 

 

She picked up her glass and brought it to her lips. The bitter liquid slid down her throat and she shuddered. She lowered it to the table and grimaced. He was chuckling softly. 

 

“Why the three numbers?” she asked when she was able to collect herself. 

 

“Eleven people I’ve killed outright. Nineteen if you’re countin’ people I told someone else to kill, and thirty two if you count a minor explosion I was responsible for.”

 

“An explosion?” she asked. 

 

“You like it when I use vulgar words to you?” he asked. “Does it get you all hot ‘n bothered?” 

 

She blinked at him. 

 

“Think it does. I bet it gets that cunt gushin’.” 

 

“Stop it.”

 

“Answer or drink,” he said. His lips curled upward in a lecherous grin as she raised the whiskey to her lips. She took a larger sip this time. The shudder and grimace was the same. 

 

“Tell me about the explosion.” 

 

“Not really how this game works, darlin’, you got’ta ask questions.” 

 

“What happened with the explosion,” she corrected sarcastically. 

 

“We was goin’ after this warehouse full o’ furs, further North. They had more men than I thought they did. I was still young, you see. Got myself in a jam. But Blackjack saw the powder. So, the men came in through the one door. Only one door, ‘n ole Blackjack ‘n I slid out over these bales. Jack, uh, that’s John, he come round the window o’er here,” he showed her with his hand. “An he start clamouring at the door ‘n then, voom, runs off. So then Blackjack get’s out through the window. Jumped down into some rubbish.  I snuck down the ladder ‘n one well struck match on a bale. Didn’t even light the powder. Got myself clear, the men you see, they weren’t ‘bout to lose their profit. Lost it anyway. Shame… all that tobacco. I counted thirteen. Might o’ been more.” 

 

“Thirty two,” she mumbled. She raised the glass of whiskey for a sip. “Your total is thirty two.” 

 

He nodded thoughtfully. 

 

“Your yankee fight?” he asked. She looked up. She lowered her eyes and shook her head. 

 

“My brother did,” she said proudly. “He died at Antietam.” 

 

“Lost a cousin at Antietam,” Frank said. “What you think o’ that?” he asked. “My fightin’ for the south?” 

 

“I think you’re a traitor,” she said simply. His eyes were hard as he looked at her, a sour smile on his face. 

 

“Why did you come west?” she asked. 

 

“Nothin’ for me back east,” he answered. 

 

“That’s not an answer,” she replied. 

 

“I would say it is,” he replied. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll take a drink.”

 

He downed the glass again. Her brow furrowed. Even  _ he  _ could not stay sober drinking so much so fast. 

 

“How much does it bother you? That…” he looked off over her shoulder with an engagingly amused and condescending look about him, “ _ five hundred  _  dollar reward?”  

 

“You cross a line.” 

 

“Not big on lines.” 

 

She stared at the glass and took a big sip. 

 

“Why me?” she asked. He looked at her a moment and shook his head. 

 

“I don’t know,” he murmured softly. His face was relaxed. More relaxed than she’d ever seen it. His eyes were open and genuine. 

 

“That’s not an answer.”

 

“It’s the truth,” he argued. 

 

“I don’t care. You have to drink.”

 

He chuckled and brought the glass to his lips. He took a smaller, but still generous, sip. 

 

“How you feelin’, beautiful?” he asked. 

 

“Good,” she replied and took another sip. His smile grew slightly. She looked up from her glass in excitement. “That was a question!” she cried. 

 

“It was,” he agreed. 

 

“So I get to ask the next one?” she asked. 

 

“You do and just did,” he answered. She thought a moment and then giggled. Her stomach was warm and her arms were vibrating. 

 

“How old are you?” she asked. 

 

“You already asked your question,” he said. 

 

“That does not count,” she all but whined. 

 

“Take a drink and I will answer,” he offered. She considered and took a sip. Her face tingled slightly. She smiled and giggled as she lowered it. He smiled. 

 

“How old do you think I am?” he asked. 

 

“You said you would answer,” she said. Her tongue was an obstacle to her speech. She had to concentrate to keep the dignity to her voice. His lips twitched. 

 

“I reconsidered. See, big word I just used. All on my own,” he said proudly. 

 

“That is not a big word,” she replied. He did not get angry. He only smiled. “You could be forty or twenty five. I do not know.” 

 

“Take a guess,” he said. 

 

“You fought in the war… you were not a flag bearer or a drummer, so you would have been at least sixteen when the war began, I would think… So, if you were sixteen in ‘61, you would be twenty six.” 

 

“Is that your answer?” he asked. 

 

“I think you were not sixteen in ‘61, I merely take it as a minimum possibility.” 

 

“Then your answer?” he asked. He picked up the bottle to feel it’s weight. 

 

“I think you are older,” she said, tilting her head. She leaned back and tapped a finger on the glass in her hands. She narrowed her eyes as she observed him. It was hard to see the rest of him sometimes with those blue eyes. He could be younger. He’d lived a long life in a short time. His skin was sunbaked. It made him look older. His nose had broken and reset, but clearly there was a bend to it. That might have aged him.  His skin was scraped red from the dull knife used to shave. His stubble made him looked older. She remembered him clean shaven. He had looked younger then. 

 

“Twenty seven,” she said. Thaddeus’ age. He smiled. 

 

“I am flattered, darlin’,” he said. 

 

“Older?” she asked. 

 

“I’m thirty one,” he told her. She nodded slowly. 

 

“That makes sense,” she responded. 

 

“How old are you?” he asked. “Just realized I don’t even know how old you are.”

 

“How old do you think I am?” she asked. He gave an amused hum. 

 

“You got yourself a young face, but old eyes,” he said. “When you’re a thinkin’ that is. You get this look about you. Cold and full o’ thinkin’.” His tone was appreciative. “But your unmarried and rich. Younger ‘n twenty four,” he said. “You women always married by twenty four but you’re rich… so… you won’t marry like a poor woman… you’re older ‘n eighteen.” 

 

She gave a little nod, a little smile on her lips. 

 

“Hmmm…” he looked her over a long moment. “Twenty… one.”

 

“Twenty two,” she answered. 

 

“Well goddamn, I was closer ‘n you,” he said and raised his glass to his lips. He twirled the whiskey in his glass around, hovering just before his mouth. His eyes were far away again, glassy. “My sister’s age… when she died.” 

 

“You had a sister?” she asked. He nodded slowly, eyes still far off. “What was her name?”

 

“Lillian. Called her Lilly. Lilly Belle, one o’ the Newark boys gave her that name. Boy was he sweet on her. She was a beauty, my sister. ‘Course nothin’ could o’ happened. He was gon’ get all of it. The whole thing, the plantation, is my meanin’. And they was God fearin’ people, the Newarks. He wouldn’t even fool with her. ‘N he could of, if he wanted. He could of..”

 

“What did she look like?” she asked softly. It was clearly painful for him. It might have been the drink, but he suddenly looked tired, very sad. 

 

“Blonde hair, but bright. Brighter ‘n mine.” He threw a hand through his hair. “Like a babies, but it never darkened. ‘N bright blue eyes. A blue like you never seen.”

 

“I feel like I’ve seen remarkable blue eyes before,” she said softly. She wasn’t sure why she said it. He looked up in surprise and then looked down at the table. 

 

“Was always smilin’ Lily Belle,” he smiled. 

 

“You got siblins?” 

 

“An older brother living. One dead,” she answered. 

 

“The war?”

 

“Yes,” she said. She raised the glass to her lips. “Jonathan lives. He is twenty four. A good man. He will do our family well. He regrets though, that he could not fight… Matthew would have been thirty this coming August.” 

 

“Where’d he die?” he asked. 

 

“Antietam.”

 

“Hell of a fight.”

 

“You were there?” she asked. 

 

“10th Georgia!” he said proudly. He raised his glass. He lowered it and turned thoughtful again. 

 

“First division Artillery, 4th Rhode Island light, battery D, under Captain Monroe,” she said. How many times had she heard her father say it proudly at parties? At night when he sank down in his chair, beaten, devastated, and drunk?

 

“Your yankee fight?” he asked. She looked up and raised the glass to her lips. His lips curved upward as she took a sip. 

 

“Tell me, little duck, who you have more contempt for? Me, for …  _ betrayin’  _ my country… or your Yankee? For duckin’ out the big fight?”

 

She took a big sip. 

 

“You were a traitor,” she said emphatically. She believed it. “But your country, in your mind, was Georgia. You fought for it.” 

 

She left it at that. 

 

“Do you hate Northerners?” she asked. “Still?”

 

“TIll the day I die,” he answered. 

 

“Why?” she asked. 

 

“Why?” he laughed bitterly. “I’m from  _ Georgia _ .” 

 

“That is no answer,” she replied. 

 

“I was at the surrender,” he said. “I was at that Courthouse. There was men there, heartbroken, but still full o’ pride. I watched General Lee ride by, head up and proud. He surrendered with dignity. The Yankees allowed for it. Even union boys, blue bellies, they was takin’ off their hats as he rode on by. I didn’t. I saw him comin’ ‘n I turned and started walkin’. Kept walkin’. Dropped my gun. I was still wearin’ my jacket. My grey coat. Wasn’t really mine. Mine was ruined, so I took mine off a friend. Blood all over it. A bullet hole right over the heart.” He tapped his chest. “Yankees let me pass by. Didn’t try ‘n stop me. They knew a broken man when they saw one.”

 

He took a big gulp and poured more whiskey for himself. 

 

“I walked ‘n walked ‘n walked ‘n I didn’t stop till I got to Georgia, ‘n you wan’ know what I found there? Crops burned… plantations in ruin… railroads destroyed… wire lines dug up ‘n snapped. My home was burned. They took the time to burn down our little hovel, home of two women, they took the time to burn it. My mama dead. My sister…”

 

He looked to the side. He remembered silently. 

 

“She ran up to hug me. She was in a little hut the Swansey boys had built her. I worked for ‘em a bit. I don’t take charity. They didn’t ask for nothin’, but I worked for ‘em. They spared what they could but… no one had nothin’. The Newark's, they was, they was stayin’ in the cabins with their slaves. The ones that chose to stay. They couldn’t offer nothin’ neither.” 

 

His voice was a murmur, he spoke matter of factly, terribly calm. Arabella listened with a pained frown on her face, deep lines in her brow. 

 

“I worked hard to make my sister smile again. And she did, but her eyes… they was dead, those eyes. Everyday I brought her flowers. Came back for lunch, she’d have me a squirrel or a rabbit all cooked up nice, maybe some carrots if we was lucky, but she always had somethin’. She’d smile and ask how my day was. ‘N one day I walk in ‘n there she is, eyes wide, almost smilin’, hanging from the rafters with a rope around her neck. The rope I was gon’ use to remove the stump of the old Willow tree on the Newark’s land.” 

 

“Took me near an hour to cut her down. Couldn’t get my hands steady. Didn’t shed a tear. Not one. My tears was all dried up you see. Saw all my friends killed in the war. I was numb to it. Death. It don’t mean nothin’ to me anymore. ‘N so I wrapped her in a blanket, dug a hole, and buried her next to my ma n’ pa. ‘N then I started walkin’ ‘n walkin’ ‘n walkin’ ‘n I didn’t stop till I got to Kentucky. Needed some money, had none. I was good at poker ‘n the war. Tried my hand. Got my clock cleaned.” He trailed a finger along his neck. “I wasn’t ready to die though. I aint afraid of it, but I aint hopin’ for it. ‘N ole Backjack saved me.” 

 

He paused. 

 

“Would you have raped me?” she asked. 

 

He blinked. 

 

“Yes, I would have,” he whispered and despite what he said next, there was a deep shame in his voice, a terrible self loathing, “‘N I woudn’t o’ lost a wink o’ sleep over it. ‘N you wouldn’t o’ deserved it. You don’t deserve it. But neither did my sister. ‘N they left her there, dress in pieces, covered in piss, thighs cut ‘n bruised. Bleedin’.  That’s what your proud Yankee army did to Georgia.”

 

She stared at him. He finished the last of his whiskey and tossed the glass to the table. It wobbled but remained upright. His fingers pressed to the wood of the table. His fingernails turned red, surrounded by a border of white. 

 

There was silence. Outside, it had begun to rain. 

 


	14. 14

Thaddeus stared silently as the angry looking young man stepped from the train, a simple suitcase in his hand, dust coating the cuffs of his pants. His dark eyes were consumed with fury. Christopher trembled beside Thad, awaiting the scolding he so badly deserved. He lowered his head in shame, but soon his chin was lifted. Even as he tried to hold his head up high and face a brother’s rage with dignity and grace, his eyes dampened with tears.

 

Jonathan came forward. He spotted them immediately. He was so unlike his late brother. He was the type of heir a family like the Duponts wanted and needed. Matthew would have faired well. He would not have seen his family fall to ruin. He would not have sacrificed his family fortune, but he was too good. He was to altruistic. While some men bemoaned a cause, Matthew had truly believed in it. When he went off to fight to fight he did it to preserve the union, because he loved his country. When he first put on that uniform and gazed up to the flag and wept it was because he was overcome with love and pride.

 

Jonathan was pragmatic and calculating. He had always been that way. Even as a boy. He was quiet, not the chatter his brother had been, but was always watching. Observing. His eyes glimmered with mischievous reflection, like he was figuring out just how he might get the better of you. He was a master of manipulation, but what made him so very dangerous, was that he rarely played a direct roll in the turning of a person into a mere tool to advance his own ends. He gave you just enough rope to hang yourself. He might say a word. He might jot down a note. Just enough, just a soft little blow of the wind, to set the course of events he had so carefully monitored into action.

 

A lawyer by training, he knew to pay attention to the littlest of details. He saw every possible outcome. He knew exactly how to twist a word or situation. He was a master of communication. He spoke well. Voice soft and smooth, he could convince anyone to do anything. The ladies loved him. He was charming and handsome. The type of young man fathers did not let their daughters spend too much time with. Every young girl that met him fancied herself in love. And though he loved the attention, was a fine flirt, and knew that his future marriage would be a contract to further political and financial alliances, he was rigidly religious. More of a Catholic than even his dead brother, more severe in his understanding of scripture than even Arabella. Men without a better understanding of ethics, lacking the same strange moral compass as he, would have fathered an abundance of children by the age of twenty five. Jonathan, Thaddeus knew, had snuck a single kiss at a garden party on his fifteenth birthday. So was the extent to his experience in the amorous affairs one could enjoy with the gentler sex.

 

When he did speak, and when he knew that there was nothing he could gain from manipulating the situation, he was frighteningly blunt. When Thaddeus had arrived to make his first request for Arabella’s hand, and her father kindly told him that he did not have the means to provide for her the way she was entitled, Jonathan had made his true feelings for Thaddeus known without the slightest bit of embarrassment.

 

“Father,” he had said as they walked back into the library. He had a book rested on his crossed knee, which he snapped shut matter of factly and began to rise to his feet. “Might we have a discussion in private? I mean to discuss the matter of our beloved Arabella falling into the hands of a man unworthy of her.”

 

It had caused some strife between Arabella and Jonathan. Jonathan had implored his sister to consider other options. He spoke loudly and proudly about his aversion to the match. It was unfair that Matthew had died at this point. Thaddeus had no ally in that home save Arabella.

 

Jonathan marched toward them now, red faced and rageful. Christopher thought he was coming for him, but Thaddeus knew better. When the telegram had arrived the night before informing them that Jonathan Dupont was a few hours from Sante Fe, he suddenly regretted leaving California. He waited with rigid shoulders as Jonathan stalked toward them. His knuckles were white around his suitcase handle.

 

“What is being done?” he asked abruptly, stopping just before them. No greetings or introductions. His lips were quivering.

 

“We’ve a table at our hotel,” Thaddeus began calmly. “I suggest we -”

 

“What is being done?” he asked, voice low and slow. His eyes fluttered, but did not remain closed. His nostrils, rather large to begin with, flared.

 

“I’ve taken two advertisements. Christopher has had posters printed. We are to speak with the sheriff when he’s time to see about the forming of a posse to pursue.”

 

Jonathan scratched the bridge of his nose angrily.

 

“It has been… eleven days,” he said. “Eleven days.”

 

“I only just arrived myself,” Thaddeus defended himself. For a moment, the rage seemed to evaporate from Jonathan. It turned Thad’s stomach. He’d rather face the rage. Instead, a icy cold took hold of Jonathan's eyes and he smiled slowly. How badly Thaddeus missed Matthew. Matthew would have embraced him and shared in his pain. There would have been some tears and a word of comfort. Not this frigid judgement. The cruel contempt for things not done.

 

“Why am I not surprised?” Jonathan asked. “My train derailed in Ohio. I had to travel by horseback to Missouri, and I suffered a terrible fever through Kansas. And yet somehow, you beat me by just a day.”

 

“Sir, may I apologize -”

 

“An apology from you will solve nothing,” he said shortly, turning his eyes to Christopher. “Nor is there a need for one.”

 

He looked back to Thaddeus, a disgusted scowl on his face. He turned without a word and began walking from the platform.

 

“Take me to the sheriff.”

 

“He’s a trial this coming Monday. The circuit judge will be arriving from his travels. He’s assured us he will give us his attention then," Thaddeus informed him.

 

“Monday is in two days,” he responded simply. “Mr. Haverish? The sheriff?”

 

“Uh, just up this way. Up this way, sir,” he said, hurrying up with large strides to keep up with Jonathan. Jonathan walked like a madman. Head straight forward, he let Christopher lead him to the sheriff in silence. They found him seated on the porch with a deputy, his eyebrows as thick as his mustache. 

 

“Sheriff,” Jonathan said to the man with the star on his breast. He looked over with annoyance. He looked away, ready to dismiss the new comer. “A dollar for every minute you spare me.”

 

Jonathan retrieved a gold watch from his dusty suit, a sideways smile on his lips. The sheriff looked over the dusty clothes, noting the quality, what might this man look like had he not worn the same suit for a week straight.

 

“Course sir,” the man said and spit into the dirty porch. He rose and opened the door. “This way.”

 

They entered the sheriff's office and the lanky lawman took a seat behind his desk. There were no cages in the front room. They were hidden behind the closed door to their right. The floor was clear, the Sheriff’s daughter was still sweeping in the corner. Jonathan sat down and placed his watch on the desk. He waited until the large hand crossed the twelve and began to speak.

 

“My name is Jonathan Dupont. My sister was abducted by the outlaw known as Friendly Frank Lawson eleven days ago,” he stated simply. “I want to know what resources you have available that we might take advantage of to secure her speedy return.”

 

“Uh… resources,” the man said and spit into his cup. “Got five men… four ‘n a half.”

 

Jonathan looked anything but amused.

 

“Four and a half,” he repeated.

 

“Stumpy, George Philips, got one hand. Lost it building that railroad in the sixties.”

 

“And the cost of rousing more men?” he asked.

 

“Well, don’t much think any will go after Friend Frank for more than … twenty at the least. Lesser men will want more, better men will want more, if you get my meaning.”

 

“I understand fully,” Jonathan said and placed his briefcase in his lap. He opened it and looked for his purse.

 

“And a course, my fee,” the sheriff said. Jonathan’s eyes darted up sharply, hands freezing on the brown leather.

 

“Fee?”

 

“Course sir. A hundred dollars and I’ll get the men together and deal with the finances,” he offered kindly. It seemed far easier to Thaddeus. He was already beginning to feel his head beginning to ache.

 

“Thank you for your time, sir,” Jonathan said, snapping the suitcase shut.

 

“That - that was at least two minutes, sir!” he called as Jonathan turned.

 

“Indeed it was, Sheriff!” Jonathan called as he marched for the door. He paused as he swung it open, voice loud and strong. “Would you rather I inform the people it took the bribe of a hundred dollars a minute for you to see the grieving fiance and brother of a virtuous woman abducted and raped by a gang of outlaws?”

 

The sheriff blinked, lips parted like a fish. His daughter stood wide eyed in the corner.

 

“No. I thought not. I thank you for your time, sir,” Jonathan tipped his hat. “You do your office a service.”

 

The three men filed back out into the sunlight. Jonathan continued on with fast and purposeful strides. Thaddeus followed behind he and Christopher, dark annoyance beginning to swell up within him.

 

“We’ll print the posters but we’ll take pages in the papers. Write about her. What she likes, who she is, personalize her to the people. They will be more inclined to help a girl they know. Pressure. We need to put pressure on the criminal. Make it too uncomfortable to keep her. And no more descriptions of the criminal. No longer use his name. Describe only Bella.”

 

“But why?” Christopher asked in confusion.

 

“To put enough pressure on him to require he leave her, will put Bella at some risk. We need to make sure this outlaw feels secure enough to simply release her, not kill her. The more threatened he feels, the more likely he is to kill her to save himself. I also want a guarantee included. A guarantee that if the criminal holding her releases her to the custody of a reliable steward to then be returned to us, that he will not be hunted.”

 

“You’d let this monster go?” Thaddeus asked.

 

“Arabella is my concern. Her safe return is my only concern,” Jonathan replied, biting accusation in his voice. He spoke to Christopher. “Bring me to the printer.”

 

Christopher obeyed. Luckily, they had been walking in the correct direction. Jonathan paid for three hundred posters to be printed before the end of the week, then made another payment for yet another three hundred more the week afterward. He wrote checks for the payments, sanctioned by his father, and then spend yet another significant sum of money on a two page spread detailing Arabella and her life. Then, on top of this outrageous amount of money, he laid out the rewards to be put on the flyers. Five hundred dollars for anyone who gave them reliable information that might produce a lead. A thousand dollars for anyone who could provide reliable information that lead to her rescue. A staggering three thousand dollars for anyone who brought Arabella to them safety.

 

They left the printers with the guarantee the printing would begin immediately. True to his word, as the door began to swing shut behind them, he heard the printer ordering everything else off the presses. This was priority one now. Thaddeus remained silent, but his skin heated. He was unused to this much emotion. It turned his stomach and he could not fight the grimace from coming to his face.  

 

He nearly ran directly into Jonathan’s back when he stopped abruptly in the middle of the street. He looked around the street, squinting into the sun with those dark, cold eyes.

 

“Where would we find… men of ill repute? Cut throats… mercenaries… the like?” he asked Christopher.

 

“Oh… the Horned Bull… or McCarney’s. But there’s a lot of Irishmen there. Or Lady O’Tooles… but that’s a… a brothel.”

 

Jonathan nodded slowly. He took out his watch and checked the time.

 

“Which way to the Horned Bull?” he asked.

 

“Up the street to the left. Nearer the markets.”

 

“Show me.”

 

They moved on down the street. Thaddeus wanted to take a break for lunch but he dare not say a word. He lifted his hat and wiped his brow.

 

As they entered the Horned Bull, the entire place hushed. The two men in fine suits drew everyone’s eyes, especially the lusty young serving girls eyeing tw fat purses. Thaddeus immediately felt vulnerable. He wanted to back out, to lower his hat to block his face from these ruffians as he did. He remained where he was, fearful of Jonathan’s wrath.

 

Jonathan’s dark eyes raked over the crowed. Silently surveying the men within. Everyone remained silent, save the bartender that came hurrying up, asking them which table they wished to be cleared for them. Jonathan silenced the man with a gentle, if dismissive, lift of his hat in his hand. He then placed it to his chest and continued to look around the room.

 

“Have we any soldiers in the crowed?” he asked. His voice was strong and loud. It commanded authority. It was to bad he had not been older when the war broke out. He would have been a fine officer.

 

And might have died.

 

Thaddeus lowered his head a moment to beg forgiveness for his dark thought. A few men grumbled and shifted.

 

“Southern or northern I do not care. I need capable men and I am ready and able to pay well for your services.”

 

“13th Mississippi!” one man said proudly.

 

“Was a scout, 87th Pennsylvania.”

 

“Cavalry. 22nd South Carolina.”

 

The other men continued to stand. Mostly displaced southerners.

 

“Infantry, 23rd Virginia.”

 

“14th Georgia.”

 

“22nd Virginia.”

 

They were all poor men by the looks of it. Displaced from their homes and off to find some sort of life in the west. The two Union men, 87th Pennsylvania, looked unsettled to be in the presence of so many rebs, but they stepped forward all the same when Jonathan beckoned them all closer.

 

“Six o’clock, the Red Savage,” he said and handed each men a silver dollar. “I am need of a posse. More details shall greet you there.”

 

“This the pay?” 14th Georgia grumbled. Jonathan was almost entirely turned toward the door already. He turned slowly with a little smile on his lips.

 

“No, good sir,” he said. “Merely… a show of good faith. Should you decide you wish not join on, that is yours.”

 

He turned again and the men began to confer with one another. Thaddeus followed Christopher and Jonathan to McCarney’s, horrified by the waste of money for an almost certain lost cause.

 

They collected seven from McCarney’s. Three soldiers. Four one time fighters in Ireland, attacking English soldiers when they could, protecting their towns from roving soldiers. They all also received a silver dollar. Jonathan had come prepared.  At the brothel, they gathered three. It might have been more, but Jonathan refused to take them on. Quality is of utmost importance, he had said as they left. We must be sure when Arabella is located, she will be treated a virtuous lady.

 

Except she’s not, Thaddeus thought darkly. What’s one more man?

 

His stomach turned at the thought of it. He’d given his word. He’d not abandon her. He cared too deeply for her. But to share the bed with a woman so used…

 

He pulled out his watch to gaze at her picture. He felt his loved renewed and let out a breath. He’d been separated from her too long.

 

They arrived at the Red Savage with a few hours to spare before their recruits arrived. He walked through the door of the dining room and into the main hall. He found the owner standing proudly in the hall in a fine suit, greeting his well do to customers as they walked in and out of the building. He spotted Jonathan and Thaddeus and his eyes lit up.

 

“Mr. Burke! This must be our famed guest from the East! Mr. Dupont. A pleasure, indeed, to have one of your magnitude in my presence,” he bowed deeply, snatching his hat from his head and sweeping it out with an outstretched arm. His crown of white hair fell toward the the floor and he whipped back upright. It fell back into place in a flurry and covered his shiny head with a red cheeked smile. “I’ve had your room prepared. New sheets. Curtains cleaned. Champagne chilled in the room. Caviar? You enjoy caviar?”

 

“I have never been fond of it,”Jonathan answered and in the same breath asked, “Have you a private dining room?”

 

“Oh, uh, the reception hall… but it is quite large.”

 

“How much to reserve it?”

 

“Oh, um… or how long sir?”

 

“The afternoon into the evening. Say midnight,” he answered.

 

“Come with me, sir,” he said and beckoned them with a finger. He brought them into his office and retrieved a large accounting book. He flipped it open.

 

“The usual fee,” he pointed out with a long, yellow fingernail. Jonathan examined it. “But… I know your tragic purpose here sir, and as long as no one else makes a request for it, you’ll have it free. If someone makes a request, I shall need to insist you pay half price to retain it.”

 

“Your kindness is refreshing in such dark times,” Jonathan said, touching his chest. The man blinked rapidly. Tears were in his eyes.

 

“I’m a God-fearing man, sir, a Christian. When I read about that poor girl…” he shook his head, then motioned to the door. “I will bring you there now sirs. Would you like lunch prepared?”

 

“Please, and sherry.”

 

“The claret here is quite good,” Thad offered.

 

“I’ll bring a bottle of both.”

 

“You are too kind,” Jonathan said.

 

They were lead into the reception hall. A room used for wedding parties, town celebrations, dignitaries and parties, it was quite beautiful. Thaddeus could not imagine bringing those scoundrels they had rustled up into a room so grand. Certain groups of people simply should not mix. Certain people should not be welcomed into a world like theirs.

 

“If you require anything else, sirs, please, send for me directly. Your lunch and drinks will be here shortly,” he said kindly. Jonathan was already taking a seat at one of the many tables. He leaned back in his chair and gave a tight smile and a nod to the owner of the Red Savage. As the old man left the room, Jonathan was reaching into his coat, pulling out a cigar and a little box of matches. His eyes were far off. His face was set in stone.

 

Christopher took a seat  across from Jonathan. Thaddeus pulled out a chair from an adjoining table and sat in an aisle. Jonathan lit the cigar, sucking on it with glassy eyes, and let a gush of smoke rush from his mouth. For a long time they all sat in silence. The claret and sherry were brought in, their orders were taken, and they were once again left in silence. Thaddeus sipped on his claret. Jonathan took a long drink of sherry. Christopher touched nothing. He sat hunched in his chair, agony all over his face.

 

“I want every whorehouse searched. I want every tavern owner questioned. I want every passerby stopped. Every girl that matches her description examined. We’ll start out in a circle from the town she was taken from. Find out where this outlaw makes his home, set up another circle out from there… we will find her.”

 

Thaddeus reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. He opened it only briefly and then snapped it shut. He looked up, chin lifted.

 

“Have you something to say?” Jonathan finally said. He looked up from the table, cigar burning between his fingers, fingers playing the stem of his glass. Thaddeus looked up. “Or is that lemon sucking grimace simply your countenance now?”

 

“There is no reason for us to fight. For Arabella’s sake. We must not fight,” he murmured softly, fixing his cuff links carefully.

 

Jonathan brought the cigar back to his lips. He took a few more puffs, dark, aggressive eyes pinned on Thaddeus.

 

“If you have something to say, sir, say it,” Thaddeus said. “But keep Arabella in your thoughts.”

 

“Don’t you dare speak to me about my sister,” Jonathan replied with remarkable calmness. “You’ve no right.”

 

“I am her fiance,” he stated.

 

“Maybe,” he answered. “Tell me what fiance makes no offer to help with expenses? What fiance takes ten days to arrive after learning his fiancee has been abducted?”

 

“We mustn't squabble. It will solve nothing,” Thaddeus said.

 

“Mr. Haverish printed posters, with great expense, which you will be compensated for, sir, and yet you… you do nothing?” he asked. Thaddeus looked up from his cufflink. He simply stared. Jonathan’s look was one of disgust.

 

“You pathetic excuse of a man,” he said. Thaddeus rolled his shoulders. He sat up straighter.

 

“Harsh words sir, but you grieve, and so I forgive you.”

 

“I don’t want your forgiveness,” he snarled. “I don’t need it.”

 

“I will step outside. My presence is clearly upsetting to you,” THaddeus said calmly. He hoped to defuse the situation, but as he slowly rose from his chair, Jonathan jumped to his feet. His chair scraped against the floor. It caught the edge of the rug and fell backwards with a calmor. Christopher flinched. Thaddeus waited, heart pounding.

 

“How can you be so calm?” Jonathan asked. Though his own voice was soft and measured, it was hot with emotion. His eyes burned like that of a maniac. He pointed to the wall. “My sister is out there! She’s out there!”

 

Thaddeus just stared.

 

“Arabella. Little Bella. And you stand there tight lipped and rigid. Have you shed a single tear? You make no attempts to find her.”

 

Jonathan looked frightful in his rage. Ferral. Yet his voice did not lift too high. He knew those outside could not hear. He still had a reputation to protect. Thaddeus remained silent. “You spend hardly any money. You sit on her dowry like she’s some cow sent to slaughter. You’ve had your pay, do you even wish for her to be found?”

 

Thaddeus was beginning to grow angry. He stared at Jonathan. His face was bright red. A large vein bulged in his forehead. The large nostrils on his small nose flared wildly.

 

“Will you say nothing?” he asked. “Do you remain silent?”

 

His eyes were wide with disgusted disbelief.

 

“You pathetic man. Pathetic. Devious. Unfeeling. My sister, she deserves better than you. My sister will not stand for such treatment. When she’s found, when my sister is found -”

 

Something in Thaddeus snapped.

 

“Your sister is dead!” he screamed. It was a terrible booming yell, a near screech. His voice broke. His eyes were wide. His hands out imploringly. His fingers quivered. “Your sister! Is dead!”

 

Christopher stared wide eyed, lips parted. Jonathan stood looking more dangerous than any man Thaddeus had ever seen but still he could not stop.

 

Thaddeus gave a disbelieving laugh. “Am I only the only one that wants to accept it? I have wept for your sister. But I know the truth. I know where she is now.”

 

Jonathan glowered. If only he had been old enough to fight in the war. The North would have been victorious in half the time.

 

“She was raped. She was beaten and she was murdered!” he raged on. “And her corpse is out there now for the buzzards to rip apart. All all that is left to find will be her mutilated bones!”

 

Jonathan was on him in a split second. Decorum and station forgotten. All there was was hate, pain, and rage. They went stumbling backward, colliding into the stables with a terrible, shuddering bang. The wood gave out. Legs splintered. They smashed down hard on the ground. Christopher was shouting and running over to separate them. Jonathan landed a crushing blow to Thaddeus’ nose. Another to his eye socket. Thaddeus felt a horrid pain. He swung. He hit Jonathan hard. But Jonathan continued to pummel him. Luckily in his rage he missed often. His fists hit the splintered wood, splitting his knuckles. By the time Christopher hauled the young heir off of Thaddeus, there was more of Jonathan’s blood covering the bereaved fiance than his own.

 

“Release me,” Jonathan panted. He was clutching at Christopher with his town hands. “Release me!”

 

The doors swung open and the owner entered, followed by two wide eyes attendants. Jonathan spit blood from his tongue. He had bitten into it in the tumble to the ground. Christopher remained on the floor, arms around Jonathan’s middle, holding him down. Thaddeus touched his swollen face with trembling fingers.

 

“You,” Jonathan raged, “will never marry my sister. Never.”

 

Thaddeus stared.

 

“When we find her,”Jonathan continued. “I am to make sure she knows exactly what kind of man you are.”

 

“I will put forward the dowry in an attempt to locate her,” Thaddeus said. Slowly, he got to his feet. His voice broke with very real pain. “But I will not sacrifice the fortune I worked so hard to attain chasing a corpse.”

 

He straightened his suit coat, but the blood gushing from his nose stained it red. He wiped his face. He was soaked with blood. Jonathan’s and his own.

 

“Sir, I am to retire to my room. Might some water and a tub be brought to me?” he asked the stunned owner of the Red Savage. He nodded dumbly and snapped at an attendendant. Thaddeus paused before leaving the room. He looked down at the glowering Jonathan. His nose had a little trickle of blood. His lips was split, but it was his hand that had taken the worse of the beating. It was swollen, split open, one knuckle bare down to the bone from a gash of broken wood.

 

“I am not paying those damages,” he informed Jonathan. He looked to Christopher. He had a broken look on his face. Thaddeus pitied him. The poor man would never fully recover from the guilt. He lingered a moment. He looked back at Jonathan. “And do not for a moment doubt the love I had for your sister.”

 

Jonathan continued to glower murderously. Thaddeus walked from the room. He ignored the looks he received from those as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He stepped inside and sagged down in a chair. He patted his swollen cheek and thought of Arabella’s rotting body baking out in the desert sun.

* * *

Archibald looked around the little clearing carefully. He knew better than to think Frank was still there. He wouldn’t linger anywhere anytime soon. He wasn’t so stupid. Even with his own personal whore on standby, he wouldn’t be able to stay anywhere long. Still, Frank was a loose cannon. Sharp but unpredictable. He managed to think of things no one else would. He’d do things no one else would dare. One always had to be careful when it came to Friendly Frank Lawson.

 

“Get shot knocking on a door out here,” Johnse said. Archie stared over at barn. That’s where he would be. They checked it out first. He was disappointed to find it empty, but he was not surprised. They dismounted as they approached the home. When a woman came around the corner with a bucket of water, they all raised their hands. It did not stop her from screeching, dropping the water, and running into the house. When the man came bursting out the door with a shotgun, Archie said a little prayer to God, thanking him that the man did not shoot and ask questions later.

 

“Sir, sir! Please, we come in peace,” Archie flashed his toothless grin. “Just going to ask you a question if your willing and then we will move right on.”

 

The man looked at him from over the shot gun.

 

“What’s the question?”

 

“Did a man and woman pass by here the past few days?” he asked. “A man with a thick southern accent. A northern woman.”

 

“Didn’t hear her speak, but a southern man came through with a woman. His wife.”

 

“Wife?” Archie asked, frowning. The man nodded.

 

“That’s what he said, yeah,wife. She agreed.”

 

“Thank you kindly, sir,” he said. “We’ll be on our way now.”

 

They turned to leave. They didn’t bother asking which direction they went in. That could always change. If they even knew. They followed what tracks they could, ending up a little inn at the mouth of the pass. THere they sauntered into speak with the barkeep. He was wiping a glance down, spitting into a cup beside him.

 

“Southern man,” he said. “Yeah, looked like an old greyback if you ask me.”

 

Archie gave a sour smile.

 

“That he was,” he agreed.

 

“I liked his wife,” he said. “I don’t know how a reb got himself such a pretty northerner for a wife. Wish it weren’t so happy a marriage. I’d a asked her to stay.”

 

“Did she seem distressed at all?” he asked.

 

“Distressed?” he contemplated. “No. Not distressed. They was affectionate.”

 

“Affectionate?” he asked.

 

“That’s what I said.”

 

“Thank you,” Archie said and slapped the bar. They walked outside to their horses, deep frowns on their faces.

 

“What’s that mean?” Abner asked. “I thought she was taken ‘gainst her will.”

 

“She was,” Johnse said.

 

“Or maybe she wasn’t,” Archie snapped. He felt fury build up within him. “Maybe that fucking bitch isn’t as sweet and innocent as she wants everyone to think.”

 

He was stared at.

 

“What do you mean?” Johnse finally asked.

 

“What if she fucking ran away with him,” Archie said, leaning against his horse.  “And she got my brother killed because she wants to get her rocks off with some Johnny reb.”

 

He turned to tighten the strap of his saddle bag.

 

“Let me tell you this,” he said. “That bitch killed my brother. I don’t care if they were going to give me the whole goddam Dupont fortune. She and Frank are going to the same end. Only one thing left to decide.”

 

The others followed suit as he jumped up on his horse. He looked around, calm on the outside, but with a bubble rage just beneath the surface.

 

“Which one I’m going to kill first.”

 

He snapped the reins hard, and off they three went into the countryside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, no Frank and Arabella, but all of this is very important for the second part of the story. Hopefully you guys at least skimmed it. 
> 
> And someone asked before, that they believed that it was said Frank was 23. In case you did not get my response on the comment, he was twenty three during the war. It was said he was twenty three during a flashback of sorts. 
> 
> Very curious to see your thoughts on Jonathan, Frank, and Thaddeus. I certainly know what I am trying to do, what I think of the characters, so hearing your thoughts is very interesting. 
> 
> (I will also be editing word again soon. I am going to go back and do the proper editing for this and alst chapter when that happens. I have a really hard time editing with google docs. Not sure why.)
> 
> Thank you guys!


	15. 15

Arabella smiled from her seat in the saloon, resting her face in the palm of her hand. Frank had a way about him. It was not something one could very easily explain. Even leaning against the post, the cue stick in his hand, watching silently, he had it. The manner in which he held his shoulders, the little lift to the right side of his face, a tiny, almost impossible to notice lift of the lips. His head tilted back, he glanced down the nose at the table, watching their new friend make his next move. She had more fun watching him than she did the game in question.

“I fear you have me,” the gentleman said as he took his shot. He shook his head gravely. He looked up quizzically. “You are quite certain you have never played before?”

Frank leaned forward, both hands on the cue stick, supporting his weight. He grinned happily.

“Not a game played much where I’m from,” he answered and took the cue stick. “But I done played trick shots before.”

He pushed himself up by the cue stick and circled the table.

“I should not have bet so much,” he smiled good naturedly. He looked over to Arabella to share their joke and she gave a polite nod. Her eyes went back to Frank. He was hunched over, preparing to take his shot, and gave her a quick wink. He shot the ball with expert skill and leaned back, sticking his thumb in his belt and proudly watching the ball dart across the table. The gentleman might have gotten angry, but he was kind man and seemed completely unbothered by the apparent loss of five dollars. They had met him in the hotel dining room the day before. Frank had finally awoken from his drunken slumber and brought Arabella down to eat. With the terrible rain that had blown through, the hotel was filled to capacity. The kind man and his much younger wife thought absolutely nothing of welcoming the rather frightful looking man and his significantly higher class wife to their table. Frank had rested his face in his hands, elbows on the table, eyes blood shot and face scruffy. Instead of drawing the reproach he deserved, it prompted the pleasant couple to purchase them their meal and liquor well into the evening.

Reginald Burbank and his wife Sally were from Maryland. Slave owners before the war, but fiercely loyal to the Union, they had freed their slaves. Having never had to purchase their slaves, Reginald had inherited them, they could keep on only five of their thirty seven. Paying the wages would have bankrupted them, and so after selling the estate and much of their property, they carved up their remaining land and gave it to their ‘most faithful negroes’ and set off for the west to make their living. Arabella had been concerned when the conversation began. Her eyes had darted over to the sour looking Georgian. Reginald was vehement in his reverence for the Union. She feared a confrontation but Frank kept himself calm. He listened without a word and when Reginald finished giving them a very detailed history of his life, happily guzzling down a bottle of brandy with Frank, her crass outlaw said very calmly, “I spent the war killin’ Yankees.”

Sally’s eyes widened, the sherry glass freezing at her lips. Arabella’s eyes darted over to Reginald, then landed on Frank. Reginald all but choked on his brandy. Frank raised his glass to his lips, pointing a finger at Reginald and winking. His lips curved into a smile and he began to laugh. Reginald and Sally were clearly shocked, more than a little uncomfortable. Reginald recovered first, joining in on the laughter and soon Sally had as well. Arabella made a light comment about her husband’s desire to shock people and reached out to touch the stubble on her cheek. Sally and Reginald saw a very loving couple look at each other longingly. In truth, Arabella could muster nothing more than affection for him as she had looked at him.

The night before had ended shortly after Frank had revealed the fate of his sister. He had turned quiet, pulled into himself, and brought the bottle to his lips, his empty glass forgotten. She had not felt the desire to speak. She knew not what to say. She rose from her chair, pulled the blind open, and moved to the bed. She laid down with her back to him, staring out at the rain thoughtfully. Frank had turned the lamp off for her. _Sleep well darlin’,_ he murmured as he turned down the lamp. She spent much of the night staring out the window, trying to process the information he had told him. When he finally crawled into bed she was awake. He laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling. How much time passed she could not say. It might have been hours. It could have been minutes. She thought he was asleep when he shifted, his hand finding her shoulder and very gently moving her onto her back. He reeked of whiskey. At first, she feared he meant to brutalize her. To take his revenge for the terrible fate of a beloved sister. Instead, he lowered himself back to the bed, his face nuzzling her breasts, his wrapped enveloping her. His breath was hot, strong with the stink of drink, but she was not repulsed. She remained still, ever fearful of a hateful man drowned in drink.

Softly, voice a broken murmur, his hot breath ghosted over her collar bone, _I wish I was in the land of cotton…old times there are not forgotten… look away… look away… look away…_ he paused a long time and whispered, _Dixie land._ He paused a long while. His fingertips pinched a strand of her hair. He twirled it. _In dixie land where I was born... early on one frosty morn…look away… look away…look away… Dixie Land._ She felt warmth on her collar bone. It trailed down her skin, leaving a warm trail of moisture in its place. _I wish I was in Dixie…hooray…hooray… In Dixie land… make…my stand…live ‘n … die… in Dixie. Away…away…away… down south… in Dixie…_

It wasn’t until he had fallen asleep, whispering about Dixie like a broken man she could not recognize, to realize that he had been crying. The next day, seated beside him at the Burbank’s table in the nicest end of the dining hall, she reached out often to touch his cheek, she fixed his vest when she noticed the top button unfastened, she felt only affection when he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. That night, when he took her upstairs she fell into bed, giggling at something he said, spreading her legs and opening her arms to him like any two cent whore he might purchase past the butcher tents to the east. The moment of shame was fleeting. It seemed to be shrinking every time he took her to bed.

“Will you be joining my wife and I for dinner this evening?” he asked as he took his next shot. Frank examined the table and lifted the cue stick. He bent over to line up the shot.

“Will you be paying?” Frank asked. Reginald thought Frank a dashing rogue. He let out a boisterous chuckle and wagged a finger at him. He did not even watch Frank’s ball strike the other, scoring his next point.

“You rogue you,” he chuckled. “The money you’ll be taking from me, it is you that should pay!” He continued chuckling with a shake of his head. “I shall pay the expense of course.”

“You are too kind,” he said. “Another game? Same rate?”

“Oh, I think my wife would take exception to that,” he said happily. He reached into his coat to take out his purse. He retrieved the five dollars and Frank went sauntering over to him. He accepted the five dollars with a grin and a tip of his hat.

“I shall rejoin you both for dinner. I must fetch my wife before she buys the whole lot,” he said and moved from the lounge. Frank leaned against the post and looked back to Arabella. They looked at each other silently. After sharing a smile, Arabella rose and took the cue stick Reginald had left behind.

“Shall we make a bet?” she asked, stopping before him to button the top of his vest. He watched her fingers work against the fabric.

“What you got to bet, hmm?” he asked. His hand touched her hip and he pulled her closer. There were a few other’s in the lounge, but none paid them any mind.

“What do you want?” she asked with a playful smile. He all but purred.

“Oh, darlin’,” he said. He used the tip of the cue tip to push back the brim of his hat. “I can think o’ good many things.”

He pulled her closer still and leaned in to press his lips to her ear. Her skin heated and her eyes widened. She swallowed thickly, but the elevation in her heartrate was not entirely unpleasant.

“That’s vile,” she breathed, arching her neck to look up into those brilliant blue eyes. A large, rough hand closed around the back of her neck, a calloused thumb stroking her skin gently.

“Deal or no deal?” he asked.

She lifted her chin stubbornly at the look of arrogance in his gaze.

“Deal,” she replied sharply. His grin widened.

“And what might you want, darlin’? Might as well keep up appearances. Pretend you got a shot at beatin’ me,” he teased as he circled around the table, collecting the four balls and bringing them to the center. “Word o’ caution,” he added, looking across the table at her. There was not a hardness in his gaze. A meanness to it. “Ask me to leave, ‘n I’m gon’ be frightful angry.”

“I know better than that,” she responded. She had not considered it really. “I am not quite sure what I might desire,” she considered, examining the cue stick. She applied some chalk thoughtfully and then wiped it on her skirt. “Everything I might ask for you would be ready to give me regardless,” she thought aloud. “It is unfair really.”

He simply stared. There was nothing to say. It was the truth. Everything she thought to make a demand, he would readily give. The only thing he would be unwilling to surrender, was she herself. It inspired another strange swell of affection for him. One she did not like, but did not try and fight.

“How’s about this, darlin’, you think on it some, ‘n if you win, I’ll owe you a favor. One I’m not ready to give. ‘N I’ll let you know when you ask if I’m collectin’. Fair yeah?” he asked, coming back around the stand before her. She considered, examining the tip of the cue stick. A single fingertip pressed to her chin, lifting her face to his. “I ever lie to you?”

She shook her head. He offered a hand. “Deal?”

“Deal,” she answered and they shook hands. He leaned.

“I look forward to seein’ you on your knees tonight,” he murmured. She shoved him away with two hands to his chest and he cackled.

“You vile man,” she accused and he stuck his tongue out between his teeth as his shoulders shook with laughter. He leaned back on the post again and motioned to the table.

“Ladies first,” he said.

He was quite surprised when she beat him within ten minutes. He stared at the table with a grim look on his face, eyes brows partially lifted, lips pressed together. She giggled at the half pout, half scowl, and his blue eyes darted upward, pinning her to her spot. She could not remove the smile from her face.

“You know, darlin’ cue sports aint for ladies,” he told her.

“We have a table at home,” she admitted. “Papa loves to play and he taught Matthew and Jonathan. They used to let me watch. As I got older, they taught me. When the house was void of guests, of course.”

“A course,” he agreed with friendly sarcasm. He tossed the cue stick down.

“Do not pout,” she scolded softly, but it amused her more than anything. He sensed this and, looking to see the laughter in her eyes, exaggerated the pout. She giggled and came around the table to meet him halfway. She pressed her hands to his chest and he shook his head at her. “We can play cards should you like. I will go easy on you.”

He let out an annoyed breath.

“Darlin’, you beggin’ me for a whoopin’,” he told her.

“Perhaps chess? I can teach you the rules,” she offered. He looked up, shaking his head, taking a breath to collect himself, and she erupted into another fit of giggles. He grabbed her by the chin.

“I’m gon’ have’ta bring you up them stairs ‘n put you back your place, sweetheart,” he murmured. She looked out the window.

“We could go for a walk?”

“Now that would be collectin’, darlin’, so you choose wisely. ‘Cause I’m itchin’ for yuh, so if you wan’me to go for a goddamn walk right now, that’s your favor right there,” he cautioned. She caught her lip between her teeth and looked outside. She looked back at him and found his eyes on her captured lip, eyes heated. It mingled with her pounding heart, sent a shock wave of adrenaline through her.

“We can go upstairs,” she said. He smirked and took her hand. He guided her from the lounge and they turned to the main staircase.

“Mr. Newark. Mrs. Newark,” the doorman greeted.

“Sir,” Arabella smiled. Frank tipped his hat. He began pawing at her the moment they got up into their hallway. With no one about, he reached out and grabbed the back of her skirt, pulling her back toward him so he could better push her along. He reached around her to open the door and nudged her inside. He slammed the door shut and turned to lock it tight. She waited, unsure how he might like to take her this time. Until she met Frank Lawson, she had truly believed there were two ways to engage in intercourse. Like animals, which she never once considered, and with the man lying on top of the woman. Frank had taught her that was not so. He also taught her it was not something that could not be thoroughly enjoyable. Even now, knowing it was inevitable, she looked forward to that overwhelming surge of blinding pleasure that it brought her. It was something she was beginning to look forward to.

And the anticipation heightened the feeling of warmth in her stomach, the tingling in her loins. He seized her wrist and yanked her toward him. She never reached his body. He turned her, slamming her against the wall and grabbing the back of her neck. She tilted her head upward, lips parting. Her hands grabbed onto his coat and his hands scooped her up by her thighs. His fingers were bruising as he hiked her skirts up around waist. Her thighs trembled. His hand left the back of her neck. It moved to grasp her throat.  It pulsed firmly and her heart beat against her ribcage with astounding force. She could hear it in her ears, feel it between her legs.

“You belong to me,” he told her. “I stole you right n’ proper.”

He licked her cheek, kissing her with an opened mouth, and his nose pressed to her temple. Her hands clutched at his coat, simultaneously pulling him closer and pushing him away.

“You belong to me, darlin’?” he asked in her ear. His fingertips dug into her bottom and he pressed his clothed erection into her. “Huh?”

She nodded. Her face tilted to the ceiling. Her eyes closed and his mouth went to her exposed throat. His tongue dragged across her pulse. He caught her skin between his teeth, pulling on it gently. He moved his face back to hover before hers. His lips brushed overs.

“You aint gon’ be wasted on some soft Yankee boy,” he told her. His hand tightened on her throat, holding her securely. Her eyes opened and she gazed into his blue depths. How brilliant his eyes were. Maniacal and beautiful. Calm but crazed. It was a danger that used to repulse her, now she did not know what was taking him so long. “I’m gon’ keep you a long time.”

“Frank,” she breathed. “Anderson.”

He used his body to keep her lifted off the ground. Her creamy thighs wrapped around his waist. He forced a hand between her legs, thrusting his fingers into her with cruel force.

“My sweet, virtuous, lady,” he breathed. “You turn into a whore for me.”

She let out a soft grunt. He fumbled with his belt.

“You gon’ get this hot n’ bothered for your Yankee boy?”

“Stop,” she breathed. “Don’t… talk about him.”

“Aint no goin’ back after me, darlin’, no one gon’ make you feel so good,” he said.

“Stop, _please,_ ” she begged breathlessly. Her wrapped her arms around his neck. “For the bet. Please, stop.”

He paused a moment, his eyes finding hers. He breathed hard. He wet his lips. He nodded softly.

“Just… just take me,” she said.

“Tell me to fuck you,” he grinned. She shook her head and he seized her chin hard. “Beg me to fuck you,” he breathed against her face.

“F… fu… fuck me?” she breathed it, breathy, a mumble, hardly audible. It felt so odd on her lips. She screwed her eyes shut as he thrust into her. She grabbed his face and searched for his lips. By the time he lifted her up and brought her to the table, her lips were red and swollen. Lines of raised red skin surrounded her mouth where his teeth had closed around her. The table, when they both finished, was two feet to the right, now crooked in the room. A chair was on the floor. He stumbled away from her, panting and covered in sweat. He leaned against the door as he fastened his pants. She remained on the table, breathing hard, and brought her hands to cover her face. She listened to his boots as he crossed the floor and his hands gently closed around her wrists, pulling her hands downward.

He leaned over her and murmured softly, “That, uh, that don’t count. For the bet I mean. I just… I just wan’ make you happy. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t wan’ upset you. You just… you drive me wild, darlin’,” he said. He shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re a goddamned witch. I just need… need you to know that you’re mine n’… ‘n I aint never lettin’ another a man have you. ‘N I just need you to know it. Yeah? Y’understand?” she nodded silently. She reached up to touch his lips. He spoke against her fingertips. “But that don’t… that don’t count.”

“Just… no more,” she whispered. “I do not wish to think about him.”

He nodded.

“Ok,” he whispered. “You sore on me?”

She shook her head and gave a tiny lift of her lips. He leaned down, pressing his mouth very gently to hers. He pulled back and looked at her. He looked at her, eyes running over her face with tepid nervousness. She’d seen this side of him before. A near boyish shyness. She wondered how he might have behaved if they had met before the war. If they were of the classes that would mingle. What kind of boyish compliments he might have offered. If he would have stumbled over his words. A time before the war and the rape and subsequent suicide of his sister had beaten the humanity out of him. Perhaps it was just lying dormant, trapped beneath the cruelty and pain he had let consume him. _Not an excuse. Not a pardon. Simply an explanation._

“Come ‘ere,” he said. He gently lifted her from the table and guided her over to the bed. He undressed her carefully. Slowly, she removed his clothing. This time, when he laid her down on the bed, he was gentle. His thrusts were forceful and passionate, but slow and steady. He remained on top of her for some time. Gently kissing her neck and shoulders, her cheek, her lips. It lulled her to sleep and when she next awoke Frank was coming back into the room, softly closing the door behind him. She kept her eyes closed, stretched her arms and yawned loudly.

“Aint that bad manners?” he asked her. She shook her head, scrunching her eyes more tightly together, and yawned again, this time, louder. “My sweet Jesus, you get that mouth open awful wide, don’t’cha.”

She snapped her mouth shut before he could speak next, but she already knew where he was going with it.

“That’s gon’ come in handy. Don’t wan’ hurt that pretty little jaw.”

Her eyes popped open and she sat up straight, ready to scold him for his foul mouth. She froze, blankets up over her naked breasts, and fell silent. Certainly not dressed as a gentleman, but the new shirt, new vest, and new coat made him look quite presentable. When he removed his hat his hair was combed and his face was freshly shaved. Her pink scarf was drying by the fire place, freshly washed.

“What’cha think, darlin’?” He asked, trailing a hand over his vest. “Now this aint gon’ be a normal thing mind. But, I figured while we’re here, you can’t be standin’ next to me while I’m dressed like that.”

“You look… very handsome,” she told him. He nodded proudly and reached for her pink scarf. He wrapped it would his neck, bringing it to his nose as he did and breathed in deeply.

“Think it was the scarf that bewitched me,” he told her. He kept it pressed to his nose. “For days, couldn’t get enough of your smell. Just,” he breathed in deeply and then let it drop. He looked at her and quirked an eyebrow. “You put a spell on this?”

“When did you decide to come after me?” she asked, slipping from the bed and reaching for her clothing. She did not care that he watched her as she dressed. It didn’t bother her anymore.

“When I made the decision? Few days,” he answered. “But the moment I laid eyes on you,” he grinned, fixing his collar. “It was over right then ‘n there.”

She pondered his words as she finished dressing. She walked toward him, examining his new clothing.

“Y’like it?” he asked again. She smiled at him and nodded. She stroked his cheek, feeling the smooth skin. “Cost a quarter, but, I had’ta. My skin was awful sore, from shavin’ with my dagger.”  Her hands silenced her, pressing gently to his chest.

“You look very handsome,” she told him gently. He smiled at her, the two gold teeth glimmering. “I do like the stubble though.”

“I know. My razor blade was in my saddlebags we had to leave,” he explained. She nodded.

“What time is it?” she asked, moving away from him. She walked over to the window. The air was warm, but fresh and clean. It was why she loved the rain so much. It renewed everything.

“Time for dinner, likely,” he answered.

“They are nice people, are they not?” she asked him. He grunted.

“Never understood people like that,” he replied. “But I spose.”  

She watched him put his gold watch on his new dark vest.

“We could sell that,” she mused. He looked up in surprise. “The watch I mean. That is real gold.”

“Never sell this,” he balked. He picked it up and examined it closely. “You got me this.” He grinned back up at her. “It was a gift see?”

She shook her head and moved to the mirror to fix her hair.

“I stopped you from killing a man. I did not _assist_ in your theft,” she informed him.

“Course you did,” he replied. He came to stand beside her. She had removed the ribbon from her hair and he collected her lose hair from her hands. He ran his fingers through it. “I don’t _like_ killin’ people, darlin’.” He knelt down beside her. He looked up at her, a little smile on his lips. “Roper… he’d a brought you home, but you know the difference between me ‘n him? He likes it. Always did. The war… it awakened something in a lot o’ men. Me, I realized it don’t matter. Killin’, it happens, it’s a needed evil. Can’t get round it. But some men, they started killin’ ‘n realized they liked it. Roper. He likes it.”

He stood and she began fixing her hair.

“What is your history?” she asked. He looked at her through the mirror, a hard, pointed look. He considered a moment before he began to speak.

“Roper does mercenary work, but don’t think he’s any better ‘n me. Men out here, the law, they just outlaws with badges. No less criminal. We was, uh, Blackjack, John, me ‘n some other boys, we was goin’ after this coach. ‘N Roper ‘n his boys was hired to protect it. ‘Bout five thousand dollars bein’ transferred between banks see. So we got there, ‘n I had a fine plan. Stuff like that, makes sense to me. Always did. So I had Blackjack go round the ridge with two men. John went over behind this little rise, ‘n course, I was the one to stop the coach. Standin’ in the street with a rifle over my arm. See, that’s the dangerous part. That’s the part that’ll get’cha killed. Well they come ridin’ up, and we knew they was with’em. But five men for five thousand dollars?” He whistled, “Risk it for that. I gave the signal ‘n they come runnin’ out. A boy, name was Joel I think. Some Jew boy from New York. He got shot in the leg. We made off with the chest, ‘n I circled back. We was gon’ get him ‘for we left. Wouldn’ta let him hang. I take care o’ my boys. Well, come over the ridge on my belly,” he made a shooting sound. “Joel was on the ground tryin’ta get the bleedin’ta stop. Don’t know if he’d a lived but, Roper emptied his six shooter. One in each leg. One in each arm. One in the chest ‘n one in the head.”

Frank considered that for a moment.

“I mean it’s a goddamned waste a bullets is what it is,” he said abruptly. “But…” he shook his head. “Joel wasn’t a threat any more. Didn’t cross him. Just stealin’ some money. Emptied his gun into him. Fifteen years old. Not right.”

He stood.

“That was the first run-in anyway. I’ll tell you more, but not now. I’m starvin’.”

She rose, putting in the last hair clip as she went.

“Would Roper have harmed me, do you think?” she asked, smoothing out her hair.

“Huh?” he asked, opening the door. “Oh. Nah,” he said. “Nah he wouldn’ta. He aint the type to hurt a lady. Government won’t pay you for that, not if you’re a white woman anyway, don’t care much for injuns…then private men won’t pay you outa fear ‘n morals ‘n such.”

She smiled and paused at the door. He began to walk down the hall, sensed she was not following, and turned.

“Will you not offer your arm?” she asked him. “We are posing as man and wife, no?”

He said nothing and held up his arm. His face did not smile, but his eyes did. They walked down the stairs to the dining area and Arabella leaned against him. She turned her face to look at his profile. She examined him, unsure what it was that she was thinking, even more unsure of what she was feeling. She found Reginald and Sally at their table. Her heart leapt when she saw they already had a glass of sherry and brandy at the table.

“Can’t the man just get some goddamn whiskey?” Frank asked her. She smiled and looked back to him.

“You could ask.”

“Aint that bad manners? Him payin’ ‘n all?”

“Yes, it would be,” she answered and looked back to the table. She waved at Sally, who was beckoning them closer happily. “Such nice people.”

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Don’t like it.”

She frowned at him, but they were now close to say anything further. She would ask him about it later. She watched him as they took their seats. His eyes scanned the roomed as he dragged his chair toward the table. She felt foolish forever thinking this man was a fool. A dangerous fool, but a fool. She was beginning to believe that uneducated did not mean stupid.

“Look at how handsome,” Sally grinned happily. She clapped her hands together daintily. “Oh, you do clean up well.”

“Sally,” Reginald scolded her for her unintended implied insult. Sally looked surprised.

“We got robbed, y’see,” Frank said. “On the road, comin’ here. My clothes, razor, money, all it.”

“Ah, yes of course,” Reginald said. “Terrible rogues out here. Poor Sally is terrified of even the trains out here. But California beckons, yes, my love?”

“Some men, no respect,” Frank mused, pouring her a glass of sherry. She thanked him softly and raised it to her lips. By the time he had his own glass of brandy poured, she was nudging her empty glass toward him. He smiled at her as he poured her some more.

“Mr. Newark,” Reginald said. Frank lifted his eyebrows and waited. “I only just realized you have not told us very much about yourself and your beautiful wife. Please. Tell us of yourself and how you two came to be married.”

Arabella became frightened. Her skin heightened and she looked to Frank at a loss. Her heartrate accelerated. Her palms turned sweaty. She did not want to leave just yet. She did not want these people to get hurt, to die. But Frank did not miss a beat. He began speaking with calm, friendly confidence, pouring Reginald his brandy and with expert casualness brought Sally to a fit of girlish giggles with his flirtatious compliments. Arabella need say hardly a word, and when it was her turn to offer some information, Frank helped her recover from her nervousness with just the word that was needed, the chuckle and gentle chiding that would explain her embarrassment, and an encouraging look that let her know she was doing well. Frank ended up drinking half the bottle of brandy himself, the only sign of intoxication being the rather blunt request for whiskey.

“I’ll buy you a few drinks, my friend,” Reginald said kindly and reached into his coat. “Share a cigar with me?”

He handed the cigar to Frank and the southern man whistled.

“Good quality this,” he said with near reverence.

“At the bar and I will procure us those drinks. My Sally dislikes the smoke.”

Frank hesitated, looked at Arabella, and then nodded. He bent down to kiss her cheek and whispered, “be a good girl now.”

She nodded and promised she would. He looked at her and she thought he was going to place a kiss to her mouth. She leaned forward so he would, but he was already straightening and walking away. Her eyes followed him as he went. When they reached their destination, he leaned against the bar, keeping her directly in his line of sight. She smiled at him and he winked. It brought a giggle to her lips.

“Now, Miss Dupont,” Sally spoke, bringing the blood in Arabella’s veins to a freezing and screeching halt. “Would you like to go home?”

* * *

Frank leaned against the bar, watching Arabella speak to Sally. She appeared nervous, would glance in his direction, and he would give her a little smile. He had been foolish thinking that he would grow complacent with her. _Complacent._ He smiled down at the cigar in his hand. Reginald was purchasing the whisky, pulling matches from his coat pocket. Every day that passed his need of her grew stronger, his desire hotter, and his feelings greater. He could not see himself ever parting from her. He’d die first.

“Mr. Newark,” Reginald said and he looked over in surprise.

“Oh,” he said and brought the cigar to his lips. He sucked in as it was lit, his blue eyes finding Arabella once more. She was smiling, shaking her head. She looked back over at Frank and said something. He tried to read her lips but could not. Reginald retrieved a paper from the bar and opened it.

“Do you read the paper, Mr. Lawson?”

“Not much,” he replied, a soft smile on his face as he watched her across the room. There was a long pause. Frank’s eyes hardened. He looked up at the windows. His skin turned hot. The back of his neck was on fire. He slowly turned his head to look at Reginald. He let his guise drop. There was no need. To lie now would be foolish and useless. Reginald was looking at him with a little smile. _Shrewd old man,_ he thought.

“I’ve a two men at the door. Two over there,” Reginald told him. Frank looked over to the table Reginald had nodded to. A man leaned back, letting his coat fall to the side, revealing his pistol. “So hear me out, sir.”

Frank brought the cigar to his lips and took a few puffs.

“Alright then,” Frank agreed but his eyes were searching for exits. How he might best get Arabella out safely. He tried to calm his pounding heart. _If you need to leave her, you’ll get her back. You’ll always find her._

“Sally is asking her if she wants to go home. Took us some convincing to realize it was you two. I know a poor southern boy when I see one. I know a northern aristocrat. And that scar,” Reginald said. “But I see the way you look at her. I see the way she looks at you. I’m not so sure it was an abduction. It’s not so shocking, to see a young lady run off with a man she shouldn’t.”

“She look like she doesn’t wan’ be here?” Frank asked.

“No, she doesn’t,” Reginal agreed. “She looks happy, well cared for. And do not mistake me, sir, I am not a man that would separate a happy pair for self-gain. Had I not been able to marry Sally, I would have died of a broken heart. I understand the power of love and it is quite clear your feelings for her run far deeper than simple lust. What I care about are her feelings.”

“You think the men you hired aint gon’ just come for me no matter what you decide?” Frank asked. “You got me a jam here, Reg.”

“They do not know who you are. I simply told them you owed me money. If you refused to pay I would need their help in detaining you for the authorities.”

“Clever man,” Frank complimented. He looked over at Arabella, a sinking feeling in his gut, a terrible wave of pain and anger. He didn’t want to have to chase her again. He didn’t want to be reminded so violently how she was here against her will. When she was around he didn’t think of his sister as much. He didn’t think of Georgia as much. His friends that died. He didn’t want to go back there. But there was a lot of things she did not want. And he was not willing to give her up yet. Arabella turned to look at him. There was a terrible tearing in his chest. And then she smiled. He continued to stare, eyes hard. She raised a hand to wave. He gave a nod. She turned back and Sally looked at her husband. She shook her head. Frank felt his hear leap but his confusion he mount.

“Well. Seems it is love after all,” Reginald said. He poured Frank a glass of whiskey. Frank took it and knocked back, slamming the glass down and demanding another gruffly. “But remember friend,” Reginald said, pouring his glass himself. “That girl has family searching for her. Family that love her. Family that wishes to see her safe. That miss her. And you, my friend, do not have the means to give her the same life you took her from. Women are easily swayed. Easily lead. Do you steal her from a life of comfort and luxury because she is willing to follow you into obscurity and poverty?”

Frank felt his anger rising. There was nothing that could take her from him. He deserved her for his pain, what they did to him. No words could play on his conscience that could make him give her up.

“I promised her a week in one place. Didn’t wan’ have to get on so fast.”

“No need to leave, sir. Your secret is quite safe with us,” he vowed. “We leave in the morning. Off to California with a well wish and prayers for you both.”

“Now, how do I know you aint gon’ send men after us anyway?” he asked. “Cause you care so much ‘bout love?”

“Well, yes,” Reginald answered in surprised. “All she need do is say the word and you’d be in chains right now.”

“Aint no man ever gon’ put me in chains,” Frank informed him with a bitter smile.

“Then you would be dead,” Reginald said. “Either way, if she wished it, she’d be free of you. She doesn’t. That is her business.”

Frank stared at Arabella a moment longer and then looked around the room. Reginald gave the men a wave of his hand. They rose and left the room. Reginald extended his hand.

“From southerner to southerner. I am a man of my word, sir, I promise you that.”

Frank looked at him a long time. His eyes were hard and searching. He found no reason to disbelieve the kind stranger. He did not want to have to move Arabella again. Not so soon anyway.

“Should we return to our ladies?” he asked. Frank looked at him and nodded silently. He walked toward the table with heavy feet and a pounding heart. He looked around him, expecting to find eyes on him, but saw only happily faces turned toward their own conversations. He took his seat beside Arabella and looked to Sally. She smiled softly at him and accepted a kiss from her husband on the cheek. He continued to stare at the two before him, trying to decide whether or not they needed to leave. He glanced at the exits again. Then her cool hand touched his burning neck, drawing his gaze. She pulled him closer. He leaned down with a pounding heart. Her lips touched to his shaved cheek. “There’s no one coming,” she whispered. She smiled and touched his cheek before retreating from him.

When he got through the haze of dinner that night and they all retired to their rooms he managed to wait until the door was shut and locked behind him before he asked her “why.”

He knew there would be no proclamation of love. He knew there would be no sudden change in her, a desire to stay with him and ride off into the sunset. She sat down in a chair by the table and shrugged. “I don’t know.” She didn’t say it. Her lips mouthed it. Knowing, expecting nothing more, did little to stifle the disappointment. She looked up after a long pause. He watched her with his back against the door.

“I suppose… I’m just not ready to quit you yet,” she answered. He blinked, eyes glued to her. She looked down. She touched her flushed face. She rose and walked to the window. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“To bed with you now, girlie.” His voice was a gruff bark. She turned in surprise but she did not move to the bed. She came to stand before him, slowly unbuttoning the front of her blouse.

“Could you…” she started, looking up with those big brown eyes. She blushed and broke off. She looked down and he lifted her chin with a finger.

“Could I?”

“Use… do that… your…”

“Darlin’?”

“Your mouth,” she mumbled. His lips curved upward into a little smirk. If anyone _was_ coming after them, it could wait. He scooped her up and tossed her on the bed. He put one knee on the mattress, his eyes hot. A predator’s eyes. No one was coming. And she did not love him. But there was heat in her gaze and when he threw her legs apart and her hands began their quest to pull his hair from his scalp, he knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere for quite some time. 


	16. 16

It was early but it was hot. Blankets tangled with his legs, coated with a sticky sheen of sweat. Her creamy legs wrapped around him, trapping him in a vice, her heel digging into his thigh, pulling him deeper and harder within her. He grunted against her throat, lips parted, teeth bared, scraping against her soft flesh with hot, needy pants. The pleasure of blinding. The terrible heat so early in the morning, the way the discarded blankets tangled with his legs in their frenzied and rushed coupling, the feel of her heel slamming into his thigh muscle, and the way her nails sunk into the flesh of his back, dragging downwards cruelly, leaving raised red skin, beads of red bubbling up in their wake, it compounded with the ecstasy flooding through him. Blood rushed to his brain, his muscles tingled and burned beneath his flesh. He thrust upward. Her head slammed against the headboard but she did not care. She struggled to keep her cries muffled. This was not some rundown saloon where whores had their own rooms. Her cries were breathy, short, and rapid.

He pressed her head back with a large hand to her forehead. Her hands continued to claw at his back. He felt himself nearing completion, but it was far too soon. Even with the sun lifting in the sky, and the countless violent rip of tremors radiating through her body, he did not want it to end. He wrapped his arms around her middle and hoisted her up, falling back on bent knees. Her head remained back a moment and he moved her to and from him with hard, forceful motions. His lips found her breasts, perfect and soft. He breathed in deeply. Her hands found his neck and she hoisted herself up. His breath was hot against her breasts. She bucked her hips against him and tilted his face upward. Their mouths met, but both remained opened, breathing hard, grunting and panting into the other, and just as another violent set of tremors forced their way through her body, he saw white and his eyes screwed shut. He grabbed the back of her head and forced her face harder to his. Their noses bent and crinkled. Their teeth knocked together.

He held her up for some time, regaining control of himself. He kept his arms around her middle, he remained buried deep within her. Pressing his face to her breasts, her hands slid through his hair, wet with sweat, and slicked them away from his face. With a still pounding heart and heavy breaths, he lowered them back to the bed. He rolled away from her and kicked at the blankets at the edge of the bed angrily. They fell from the bed and he let out a long sigh. She looked to her side and bent down to grab something that had fallen off the bed. He watched her, eyes raking over the soft curves of her creamy skin. The way her breasts fell, waist twisted, hips swelled. He felt himself beginning to stir again already. He was once again, as he had been since taking her, overcome with his need of her. Not the need for her body, which he would be needing again in short order, but her very existence. Lying beside him at night, seated across from his at dinner, beside him as he played cars, his arm draped over her shoulder. She had a beautiful laugh. Her eyes twinkled deliciously when she was angry. When something displeased her, she gave the quickest and littlest crinkle of her nose, before recovering with expert grace. He needed all of it. He needed to possess all of it.

She rolled back around and took the little blanket that rested at the foot of the made bed. She draped it over his slowly recovering member and reached for the sheet to cover herself. They remained mostly bare, relief from the hot room, but what needed to be covered, was covered. He looked at her a moment, then back at himself, and chuckled. He ran his fingers through the hair on his chest, and smiled. Never in his life had he been struck with such a feeling of such contentment. Not since he was a boy anyway. A smile came to his lips and he traced his fingers over the scar on his throat.

“Hungry, darlin’?”

“Not right now,” she answered. He looked over at her to find a little smile on her face. Her eyes were closed and she looked up to the ceiling. He rolled back onto his side and touched her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at him. Her fingers went to touch his lips. “Remember the tavern we passed yesterday? It was on the other side of the butcher shop by the market?”

“Wet Whistle?”

“Yes,” she smiled at him and he was already shaking his head. She soon began to pout.

“No, hundred times no, sweetheart,” he told her.

“Just to eat and sip some whiskey. Tonight for dinner. We will come back here to sleep.”

“No,” he said again. She was sitting up anxiously, holding the blanket to her chest.

“But I desire to know what spending time in such a location will be like to experience,” she protested. He smiled softly.

“No.”

He slid from the bed and reached for his shorts. He slid them on, for her own comfort, not his, and moved to collect his clothing. 

“Forgive me for making such a foolish request,” she said lightly, innocently, but he froze, his back to her, and looked up to the ceiling with a knowing, stony smile on his lips. “I had always believed southern men were men of their words. How foolish, to make such a mistake.”

He turned slowly and pinned her with hard eyes. His annoyance mingled with amusement. He already wanted her again. His erection was swelling his shorts.

“Careful, darlin’,” he cautioned. He pulled on his undershirt, when he looked back, she was tracing her finger along a rose on the white sheet, playing coy, but her eyes were too sharp, too alert.

“I see that it matters not that I won a bet, fair as fair, you shall do as you please,” he continued on.

“That’s right darlin’, I will,” he answered. He put on his shirt next, his new one. If she thought he would honor a bet that could put her in such danger she was foolish indeed.

“Well, if you do not believe you are man enough to protect me,” she said as he pulled the shirt over his head. His eyes found her again. There was little amusement in them now. “Then I understand.”

She slid from bed and began to dress.

“Careful,” he said, voice low. She looked over at him with mock surprise. She fought the lift that threated to come to her lips. “I don’t take kindly to havin’ my manhood questioned by my woman.”

She turned more fully to face him. In her drawers and shift, she looked absolutely delectable.

“Then do not give me reason to,” she replied. She approached him. “Stand by your word.” Her hands slid up his abdomen to his chest. She smiled at him. Yes. She was a witch. “And prove your masculinity to me.” One of her hands touched the back of his neck. “And I shall be gratified.” She got on her tip toes and kissed his lips softly. She lowered herself back to her feet. “Where I come from a woman gratified by a man …is beholden to him.”

“Beholden?” His voice was scratchy. Her eyes twinkled. Her fingers buttoned the rest of his shirt slowly. She looked back to him.

“Indebted.”

He swallowed thickly.

“Alright,” he breathed. “We’ll go tonight. But you got’ta listen to me. I tell you to do somethin’ in there, you do it. No questions asked. Yeah?”

She nodded happily. “I will,” she promised.

“And you stick close to me. No slippin’ away.”

“I won’t.”

He examined her a moment.

“Gon’ have to find something else too. Can’t wear that. It’ll draw too much attention.”

“It is not so fine,” she answered. He pulled on his trousers and looked at her.

“Will be there,” he replied. He took her scarf and wrapped it around his neck. “I’m gon’ go get something to chow on. Usual spot?”

She nodded happily, nearly skipping to collect her skirt. A small smile came to his own lips and he exited the room. Near numb legs carried him down the steps. He had a warmth in his limbs. A tightness in his chest. It was not at all unpleasant. He tipped his hat to the doorman, a man he had come to like in the few days they had been there. That he had fought for the Union was simply unfortunate. But in their short conversations while Frank would wait for Arabella to make herself ready for the day, he had come to understand that this man’s life in Vermont, had not been all that different from his own in Georgia. He sat down in his usual spot and ordered two full breakfasts. Arabella had asked that he earn things honestly. She was alright with betting. She had been thrilled when he had a raucous game of darts with a group of prospectors from New York passing through on their way to California. It had been a fine game of honest jesting. The men seemed thrilled to lose their money to the crass southern man with the golden teeth. Even Frank did not sense any malicious condescension on their part when they patted him on the shoulder and tried to mimic his southern twang.

 _Y’almost got me likin’ Yankees,_ he told her as he counted the bills. She giggled from the chair and grabbed him by the cuff of the shirt, pulling him down beside her. _Almost_ , he added and she pulled him in for a kiss. But as much as he wanted to obey her, what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt, and he had slipped his hand into the pocket of plenty a fine suited man during their jaunts to the daily market. It kept his well-watered, put fine meals on the table, and purchased Arabella the hair irons she had wanted and two new dresses. But the shows he put on for the gentlemen that passed through gave no one reason to question how he got his money, speaking and looking as he did. The plates were placed down at the table and he leaned back to check his gold watch.  Arabella would be another hour at least. With makeup and hair irons at her disposal, the woman took forever to make herself ready. And though he thought her beauty was as gran in the morning with tired eyes, messy hair, and not a scratch of makeup, he did very much enjoy seeing her as he did when she spent so much time on herself, put on one of her fancy dresses. So much so, that he cared very little about the time it took. Sometimes, he would end up eating his and her meal, so he could order a fresh one for her when she finally did arrive.

He was just digging into his first meal when the newspaper was slapped down on his eggs. He bristled, ready to give the joker a good beating or, if need be, kill the man that had discovered his identity, and make off with his little Yankee. He turned, and immediately his adrenaline began to come back down, but his alertness remained. He watched Blackjack plop down in the chair beside him so they would not have to speak too loud. Frank motioned to the plate across from him that would be Arabella’s. Blackjack reached for it and dragged it across the table. He began piling food into his mouth, making the white scar on his cheek bulge and stretch.

“Still here then? Still alive?”

“Course she is,” Frank said gruffly. Blackjack nodded.

“Letting her just wander?” he looked around, chewing a mouthful. He tapped the table with his knife. “Here?”

“She aint goin’ nowhere,” Frank replied. Blackjack nodded and then shook his head.

“Got some news.”

“How’d you find me?” Frank asked. It was the most pressing matter in his mind.

“Goin’ town to town,” he spoke between mouthfuls. “Lookin’ for you. Then this man at a bar had too much drink, spoke about a man digging fence posts with a scar round his throat. ‘Sumed it was you.”

“He say my name?”

“Nah,” Blackjack said. Frank lifted the paper from his food and examined it. He searched for the words he knew and got the gist. “Brother’s here. Yankee means business.”

Frank read the paper, dislodging a piece of bacon from his teeth her his tongue.

“Five posses formed?” he asked.

“Directly, from this Jonathon Dupont. Word has it others have formed up. Searchin’ for the reward. Upped it considerably.”

“Fiancé shoulda been doin’ this,” Frank mused.

“Don’t matter who’s doin’ it, matters that it’s bein’ done. Frank, you’ve had your fun, it’s time we let this girl loose.”

“Not a chance,” Frank answered. He slapped the paper down.

“Frank –”

“Not a chance,” he repeated. Blackjack looked down angrily.

“Says here, if she’s released, you won’t be pursued.”

“Bullshit,” Frank laughed bitterly. “You believe that, Ed?”

“Frank, there’s talk they brinin’ in the marshals. Might even loan out some Texas rangers. This girl… she aint some girl. She comes a family that’s got pull in the government. Relatives in the goddamn senate.”

Frank felt a swell of panic rush up within him.

“What worse…” Blackjack scooted closer. He put his elbow on the table and looked around the room. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “Bart Roper died in that injun attack.”

“Fuck,” Frank breathed. He pressed his hands to his face. He did not need to be told what that meant.

“A vengeful Archie Roper scares me more than any Marshal or Ranger. An I don’t gotta tell you… Roper might just decide she needs to die too. Vengeance outweighs gold. Every time.”

“No harm will come to her.”

“Frank.”

“No _harm_. Will come to her,” he said. His eyes burned. Blackjack nodded slowly. He glanced around the room. The two rough looking men earned some curious glances. There was more than one table that discussed their possible reason for being there in hushed voices. But not a single table seemed at all suspicious. “And I aint leavin’ her.”

“Fucking stubborn bastard, Francis,” Blackjack snapped. “I got a place. John’s there now. Brewster. It’s out the way. Just south of the border. In the desert. Best to spend some time there ‘n we can see people comin’ for miles around.”

“We can leave tomorrow,” Frank said. “First light.”

“We leave now,” Blackjack said. “Frank –”

“Say my name a little goddamn louder, Ed,” Frank hissed.

“What the fuck do you think –”

“Sir….?”

Frank turned his head to find a boy, sixteen or seventeen, standing by the table, his cap in his hand. He had blue eyes, almost green, and a port-wine stain on his cheek.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“This familiar to you?”

He held up a bracelet Frank had never seen before, simple, but with fine craftsmanship.

“Sure is. Belongs to my lady,” he said and snatched the bracelet from him. “Now go.”

“Not even a penny?” the young man asked indignantly.

“I’ll give you a broken nose if you don’t get the fuck away from me,” Frank answered. He put his cap on his head, blue eyes flashing angrily, and straightened his jacket. He whirled around on a heel and marched off to the door. Frank dropped his newest gift to Arabella on the table and looked back to Blackjack.

“I made a promise to her that I’d take to the Wet Whistle tonight. I owe her a bet,” he mumbled. “We’ll be fine one more day.”

“Frank.”

“Mr. Blackjack,” Arabella said softly, her hand on Frank’s shoulder. Blackjack and Frank both looked up in surprise. Frank was almost embarrassed that neither had seen her approach. “What a lovely surprise. Is Mr. Canton with you?”

“Uh, nah,” he said and got to his feet with a tight smile. He gave a tip of his hat and surrendered his seat to her. He moved to the other side of the table.

“I am not interrupting, am I?” she asked.

“Not at all, darlin’,” Frank said and raised a finger to the server. He came back almost immediately with a plate for Arabella. She ate slowly, daintily, as a lady should, and her eyes found the paper beside Frank. He picked it up and flipped it over more roughly than he intended. She handled it with grace, not missing a beat and kindly asked the server to bring them fresh coffee. And despite her grace and maners, she finished her meal quickly and nudged the rest toward Frank.

“I feel as though you two have something to further discuss. I will wait upstairs,” she said. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet. He handed her a few bills.

“Go ‘n buy somethin’,” he told her. “Be back by noon?”

She nodded, accepted the money, and gave Blackjack a little curtsey. Frank watched her walk away, the frenzied and distorted, violent need bubbling up within him in a dangerous panic. He’d never let her go. He could not let her go and he turned his head to make sure Blackjack understood that.

* * *

 Arabella tucked her bills into her purse as she walked toward the approved markets. The glimpse she had seen from the newspaper had been enough to turn her stomach and put an ache in her chest. It was about her. She knew very little more than that, but she was quite certain she saw her brother’s name on the top of the page.

 _Dear Jonathan,_ she smiled bitterly, pausing before the window of the dining hall in the hotel. _How could I have doubted you._

She looked inside and found Blackjack and Frank at their table. They were arguing, leaned in closely toward each other. Frank was waving a hand and Blackjack was pressing his fingers to his chest. She moved away from the window, squinting into the sun and repositioning the straw hat on her head.

She looked over the jewelry, the linen, household tools, but she could focus on nothing else but her impending rescue. It would happen eventually. Even now, all she need do was say the word and she would be brought to safety. What force was compelling her to remain silent she could not say. Her only fear was that Frank might be harmed in the process. There had been moments early on when she had fantasized of that smug face with a noose around his neck. Now, there was no image that forced its way into her brain that frightened her more.

“Miss?”

She turned to find a shy young man coming toward her, a large birthmark on his face, wringing his cap in his hands.

“Yes?” she asked.

“You like the uh… you like the gloves there?”

She looked down at the gloves in her hand and smiled.

“Oh, yes… do you desire them for a sweetheart? I need them not,” she said and handed them toward him. He shook his head with a shy blush and a breathy laugh. His green eyes twinkled and he smoothed out his hair.

“No uh, no I don’t have a sweetheart,” he smiled. “Could I… could I buy those for you?”

“What?” she asked with a frown. “Oh… Oh, no that is quite alright. My husband has provided me with the funds.”

“Oh, husband,” he said in surprise. “Forgive me, miss. I didn’t see a ring.”

“Lost, unfortunately,” she replied with a graceful smile.

“I’ll be leaving you then, Mrs. Forgive me again.”

He bowed and she gave a little bend of her knees. She watched him go and turned back to look at the gloves. She smoothed them through her hands and paused. Her left hand remained bare, long, slender fingers bare. She longed to see a ring on it. She thought of Thaddeus and her chest ached. She sighed and slapped the gloves. She was suddenly furious. She never doubted his love for a moment before Frank barreled into her life. She never doubted her own love. Now she knew nothing. She did not know what he felt, what she felt.

She looked down the way toward the little tent city. She saw men in blue. Yellow trim. Union cavalry. Her feet brought her toward them. She marched angrily. Her heart pounded. She would see Frank Lawson hang. For stealing her, for raping her, for turning her into a whore, for making her question everything about her life and how she wanted to live it. Who she wanted to live it with.

She stopped abruptly. She stared across at the cavalry men. One turned to look at her and she was seized with terror. Did they know who she was? Would they be coming for Frank now? She gave a smile and a nod of her head. One man gave a wave and they turned, back inside to find comfort in the arms of women whose affection was sold. She turned back around. She walked back to the booth, purchased the gloves, and made her way back to the hotel. She walked back to Frank and Blackjack, interrupted the still heated but hushed debate.

“Arabella?” Frank asked, getting to his feet with a frown. He touched her cheeks. “You’re. Ar’you unwell?”

“I am… tired,” she breathed. Her chest heaved and she felt tears come to her eyes. Concern flooded his blue depths and she looked up into them, trying to calm herself with them.

“I’ll bring you upstairs,” he said. “Ed.”

He put an arm around her middle, then took hold of her opposite hand and guided her up the stairs. Slow and steady. They were silent as they climbed up the stairs, walked down the hall, and stepped into the bedroom. She moved to the bed, sitting down with heavy breaths. He knelt down before her and patted her cheeks gently.

“Bella, darlin’?” he asked. She reached out and touched his shoulders. She let out a long breath. She sucked in air through her nose. Another gush left her lips. She nodded slowly and closed her eyes.

“I… I am well,” she promised. “Go back to Blackjack. I just need to rest.”

“Did you see somethin’? Did someone hurt you?” he asked. His eyes burned. “’Cause I’ll kill ‘em. Someon hurt you, I’ll kill ‘em.”

She smiled and touched his cheek. She bit her bottom lips. 

“I am a woman,” she whispered. “It was a moment of weakness. That is all.”

He nodded slowly. He took her hand from his cheek and pressed it to his lips.

“You sure?”

“I am certain,” she promised.

“You wan’ me to stay a short while? Ed’ll wait.”

“I am fine,” she whispered. He nodded slowly, kissed her cheek, and turned to leave. He hesitated and then turned. Thoughts of her brother rushed to her. Thaddeus. Terrible, terrible guilt. _Shame._ He had his door on the handle when she called out softly. He turned slowly. “Perhaps… perhaps just a short while? Until I fall asleep?”

It would not take long. She was so tired. He walked back to the bed, removing his hat and tossing it to the table. He crawled onto the bed, leaving his boots on. She rolled toward him, pressing her face to his chest. His arms closed around her. She tangled her feet with his boots. She clutched at his vest, burying her face into him and breathing in deeply. Would she miss that smell? When the time came to go home. To see the family she loved. The family she missed. Return to the man she would spend the rest of her life with and try to forget about this horrible experience?

“Anderson?” she asked.

“Yeah, love?” he asked.

“When will you let me go?”

“Never.” His voice was low. Reverent.

“Is that a promise?”

“It is.”

She pressed her face closer to him. She breathed in deeply. It should have brought her the peace it did.

* * *

Archie leaned against the post outside the Wet Whistle. He watched her walk back to the hotel. For a second he thought she was going to approach the soldiers. It would have changed everything if she had. Luckily for him and his deranged plan to avenge his poor brother’s soul, she returned to the hotel. Wyatt came to stand beside him, glancing over his shoulder nervously.

“She called him her husband,” he said, wiping his forehead with his hat.

“You’re positive?” Archie asked.

“Positive. Now… now I’m going to get a full share of the reward right?” he asked.

“Of course,” he lied.

“So what now?” Johnse asked.

“We wait,” Archie said. “It’s too crowded. We’ll make camp at the edge of town. Wyatt. Follow her. She’s the important one. We lose Frank it doesn’t matter. He’ll be chasin’ her.”

Wyatt nodded. Archie reached for an ear of corn from the farm stand and pulled back the green leaf. He brought the raw ear to his lips and gnawed at it with the side of his mouth that the butt of a rifle had not knocked free.

“Any movement, you get me, understood?” Wyatt nodded and Archie shoved the corn into his chest.  “Johnse? Abner?”

The two followed him from the tavern. Wyatt took the corn back down the street, leaned up against a lamppost, pretended to sleep, and waited.

* * *

Arabella felt better once they were out of the hotel and on their way to the Wet Whistle. The distraction was needed and she focused on the excitement of the task at hand. Blackjack helped with that. He accompanied them, behaving as his usual grim self, but now, no longer terrified of him as she was, she was able to speak to him comfortably, and the two engaged in conversation as they found their table.

It was a dirty place. Dirt coated the floor. The tables were wiped clean, but old wood, rough, with foul words carved into it. The glasses were smudged and dirty, the most problematic in Arabella’s opinion. The cliental were equally as rough. It was rougher than any of their previous locations and while Frank and Blackjack seemed quite at ease, Arabella was beginning to have second thoughts. As their beer was brought them, and Frank raised his glass to his lips, she caught the smirk and twinkle in his eyes. It occurred her then that he had purposely been steering her away from these locations, that even when they arrived in locations she had considered low class, rough or dangerous, it was only scratching the surface of the depravity of the west.

She raised her beer to her lips but could not bring herself to sip from the glass. She brought up her napkin and carefully wiped the brim clean. She dare not look at it and finally took a sip. It was warm and sour. She grimaced deeply and he chuckled.

“Not sure why you wanted to use your bet on this,” Frank said. He had already finished his beer and called for a bottle of whiskey. She looked around at those present while Frank and Blackjack began to discuss friends she did not know. She listened, curious to learn more about their lives, but watched those around them. Even as she ate the cool and plain, but not at all unpleasant, beans in her tin bowl, she found it fascinating. She was amazed, shocked, and disgusted to find a couple nearly copulating to their right. She watched, wide eyes as his hand slid up her skirt, revealing dirty thighs, and, presumably, slipped his fingers inside of her. There was a woman sitting on the piano singing an absolutely foul song, to which she was greeted with cheers from all the man and women present. Her eyes lingered on a face she thought familiar, but looked away, feeling she was simply being silly.

The dancing was the most exciting. It was fun, loud, and without any proper form.

“I have never seen dancing like that,” she told Frank and Blackjack.

“Never?” Blackjack asked in disbelief.

“I have danced,” she said, putting down her glass of beer. “Of course, we dance, but there are measured steps. Steps you count. The music is not nearly as… unpredictable.”

“They just makin’ up,” Frank pointed out.

“Yes, I can tell,” she answered. She watched those on the dance floor. She smiled as her eyes followed them hopping and spinning around the room.

“You wan’ dance?” Frank asked. She looked over in surprise.

“Oh, no. I could not,” she breathed, touching her throat and glancing back to the dance floor. Frank got to his feet and her lips parted as she looked up at him.

“Come on now,” he said, holding out a hand.

“No I… Frank, I cannot, I do not know how,” she protested.

“What’s there to know. You just move,” he said. His hand grabbed hers and yanked up her. She fell into him and he smiled down at her. “Trust me.” His hands touched her hips. “Just follow me.”

He nearly swung her out onto the dance floor. His hand found her hip. His other took her hand. It did not take long before her hesitation vanished and she was laughing with him. Her movements were as light and enthusiastic as his. Every song molded into the next and it felt like they were dancing for an eternity, yet at the same time, it was but a blink of an eye. And it would have continued, if only she had not looked to her right in that moment to try and whip a troublesome strand of hair from her eyes. She found the familiar face, it was bit a flash, but the red stain on his face was clear as day. Her stomach turned and she was overcome with a feeling of dread. Her father, before she left, had sat her down. She remembered only bits of what he said now but she remembered one portion perfectly in that moment.

_Follow your heart. Listen to your instincts._

She pulled Frank from the floor, back toward Blackjack and their table.

“Out o’ breath, darlin’?” Frank asked with a smile. She shook her head and looked up at him, her hands on his arms.

“I think we are being watched,” she told him softly. She reached up and caught his chin before he could turn to look. “Me mustn’t let him know. He approached me earlier, about gloves… it seemed innocent but… my right, your left.”

Blackjack leaned forward and Frank did a sweep of the entire room, as if he were looking for something else. His eyes did not pause before sweeping back to her.

“Came to us too,” he told her and looked back to Backjack. “A posse?”

“Money on Roper. No need to be secretive. Have enough men they’d be on us already.”

“Need to leave.”

“He’ll follow.”

Frank thought a moment.

“Use me,” Arabella said. He looked at her. “Well... they want me for the reward, yes?”

Blackjack and Frank exchanged a glance.

“If I walk back alone –”

“No.”

“Anderson,” she whispered. He was shaking his head already.

“It’s too risky. No. I won’t allow it.”

“You two sit down and drink. You look odd,” Blackjack said, pouring them each a shot. They sat down and Blackjack tapped the table.

“If we’re goin’ta get of here unnoticed, he needs to be taken care of,” he said. “’N I’m sorry, Frank, but Arabella’s right. He’ll follow her ‘n then we… we do what needs be done. Then we go.”

“’N what if he just kills her?” Frank asked. “What if takes out a gun ‘n puts a bullet in her? _No_.”

“He won’t,” Arabella insisted. “The reward –”

“Roper needs her to get to you, if she’s alive, she’s bait. She won’t get shot.”

Arabella frowned. She wondered if there was something she did not know.

“If we do this,” Frank said. “We do it my way. You both understand?”

They nodded. Arabella felt a thrill of excitement and she leaned forward.

“Alright. This is the plan….”

* * *

Wyatt sat in the corner, watching the three from his seat. He considered going to get Archie to tell him about this second man, but knew better than to do so. If he lost track of the girl, he would never see the money they would get for returning her to safety. Of course, he needed the money for his family. He could marry Vicki once he had it. But he also felt good knowing he would be rescuing a damsel in distress.

He watched as Miss Dupont asked Frank Lawson for something. He rose and walked toward the bar, pointing at the different cheap wines they had. The other man turned, reaching out to retrieve a woman of his own. The whore giggled as she fell into the man’s lap. His hand went up her skirt as he propositioned her. He almost missed the lady’s escape. She slid from her hair with expert stealth.

He rose, anxiously looking toward Frank Lawson. The idiot was talking to the barkeep, oblivious. The other man let his vice distract him, fumbled with the whore’s breast. Wyatt moved through the crowed. Always watchful of Lawson’s location. Once outside he looked side to side. He spotted her dark figure hurrying quietly down the strip, taking a right turn by the butcher. He hurried after her. His heart pounded with excitement. If he could get her to Archie, she’d be safe, they could return her to her family, and he’d make enough money to feed his family and marry his sweetheart. He got into the little alley, buildings on either side of them. She had slowed, looking around anxiously. He raised a hand.

“Miss Dupont!-”

The words cut off. He heard a loud thud. Felt a painless warmth in the back of his head and then fell to the ground.

* * *

Arabella felt her nerves rise as she turned to talk down the alley. Knowing Roper’s true intentions suddenly left her terrified. That both Frank and Blackjack seemed quite convinced that she was no safer than Frank was. She counted the turns carefully. Frank had repeated it to her five times. He made her repeat to him. There had been fire in his eyes. Burning concern. It had made her smile.

When she heard her name, she was suddenly convinced she took the wrong turn. Frank wouldn’t be there in time and she was going to be murdered and violated in the middle of an ally in some no name, dirty pit of a city where her family would never find her body to bury. She whirled around, ready to beg for mercy, that she had nothing to do with the death of Archie’s brother, that she had actually liked him. But Frank stepped from the shadows and delivered a brutal blow to the back of his head.

She _heard_ his skull crack as the back of his pistol slammed into the bone. He hit the ground hard. He lay there in a heap a moment and then let out a long groan. He lifted his hands to the back of his head. She saw blood glistening in the moonlight. Frank looked up as he crouched over the man. He looked frightful.

“Turn around,” he ordered. She shook he head. She needed to see this. She was taking part in it, she could not hide from the truth of it. And this man… he was trying to kill her. That was what Frank and Blackjack said. She could not take the risk that they might not be telling the truth. She had to believe it. She forced herself to and she did. “Turn. Around.”

“No,” she said. He cursed softly and flipped the man over. They heard voices down the street. Frank raised back his hand and hit the man hard in the face. He raised it again. He hit him again on the top of the skull. Again his arm lifted. Another blow to the head. But the man would not die and began to gurgle on his shattered teeth and blood. Frank cursed and retrieved his gun. He dropped to his knees, straddling the man’s waist. Feeble hands pushed at him and Frank sunk the blade into his gut. He did it again. He jabbed at him over and over. He could have slit his throat. He could have sunk the blade into his temple. He could have jabbed it in the heart. Instead, he stabbed him in a frenzy, a drawn out, painful death. Arabella watched, eyes wide, feelings surprisingly numb. He jumped off the man, searched his pockets, and then stalked toward her. Before they fled, he paused, panting hard, and pointed to the dead man.

“That’s what happens to people that try ‘n take you from me,” he seethed. He grabbed her wrist in a vice like grip and yanked her toward him. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Satisfied, he pulled her by the hand toward the stables. She followed after someone that had just killed a man for her, to keep her. He actually took a life. It disturbed her how much it did not bother her, but only just, Indeed, thinking about the lengths to which he just went, sent a quivering in her stomach that was not at all unpleasant.

“Think you can handle it?” he asked when they got to the stables and Blackjack snuck out three horses. She looked to the reins in surprise. She nodded. He still helped her up and jumped up on Bobby Lee. She looked at him as they readied.

“You get my blood hot, woman,” he growled beside her. He grabbed the back of her head and brought her in for a short, but bruising kiss. It ended too soon, and he dug his heels into his horse. She did the same, and together, they rode off into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading, please let me know what you think??


	17. 17

17

They rode hard and all through the night. When the sun rose up above the horizon, she was certain they would find a place to lie low for the rest of the day. Even if it were a hard spot on the ground that she could rest on and find some much needed sleep and relief for her aching muscles, she would have welcomed it. It would have been sweater than any soft feather bed she had ever slept in. It wouldn't have been able to compare with the silk sheets she had once slept on. But the sun rose and her aching muscles received no relief. Frank and Blackjack pressed on into the growing heat of the day. And just when the bubble of a cry welled up within her, the pathetic whimper of a request to pause and rest, Frank would turn his head to make sure she was still there, to make sure that she was well. He would wait for her request to stop but his words swelled in her brain.

_Think you can handle it?_

She refused to admit she could not. She was afraid he would decide she could not handle it and would rob her of her horse. But most importantly, she was afraid of being seen as nothing more than a soft Yankee aristocrat to him. A soft Yankee aristocrat whose only use was to warm his bed. It silenced her protests. Even as the day pressed on and she began to feel like she would be sick, when every muscle in her body screamed, her throat burned for water and her stomach growled for food, she remained silent. She kept up with them. Not once did they begin to pull ahead and not once did they pause because she looked like she was faltering.

They slowed when they entered a forest. Arabella managed to distract herself with her musings about how amazing New Mexico was. How one moment you could be in a grassy wasteland that stretched as far as the eye could see, to being in the unforgiving and blistering desert, to being in a beautiful, green leafed forest. Her wonder lasted only so long as her horse remained smooth beneath her. When he jerked to move over a decaying log, the muscles in her thighs yelped and she was once again reminded of her near fourteen hours on a horse.

"It aint the ocean. But it's water," Frank said as he brought Bobby Lee to ride beside her. They came out of the cover of trees to a little bank, stretching across to a beautiful length of river curling along a foothill, spattered with hard rock and desert bushes, across from a swell of pine trees and, along the river, a mess of sycamore, cottonwood and walnut trees.

"It is beautiful," she smiled. "Are we… are we resting then?"

He looked over at her with a knowing smile. He leaned over on the horse, looking out toward the water. Blackjack was skirting along to the side, looking for suitable land.

"You did real good today, darlin'," he said. "Better 'n I thought you would."

"I feel like I am going to die," she admitted with a smile. They moved on to follow Blackjack and he hopped from his horse and was removing his saddlebags. He and Frank had a short discussion about where Frank's saddlebags had gone to, which Blackjack responded with a gruff laugh and a  _Well thank God that bastard's dead._  Frank walked off to fetch some water and Arabella lowered herself to the ground. She let herself fall back onto her back and stared up at the sky. All at once her body hummed with aches and rejoiced with relief.

"Never met a woman in my life that could ride like that," Blackjack said and spread out his bedroll. "Lay here. Don't wan'ta dirty that dress."

She moved over to sit down and gave her thanks. She squinted up to the sky.

"A few hours until the sun sets I would say," she mused. "Are we going to press on?"

"This is a good spot. We'll stay here till morning."

"Oh, thank God," she breathed and fell back on the bedroll. Blackjack chuckled as he collected the horses and began removing their saddles. He left their leads on and began walking them toward the water. She let her eyes fluttered closed and fell into the briefest of sleeps. She awoke to water dribbling onto her forehead. The cool beads of water felt nice on her hot skin, and she let her eyes flutter open. Frank was kneeling over her, smiling down at her with those brilliant blue eyes, the canteen held above her forehead.

"Thirsty?"

"Very," she responded. She sat up, grimacing as she crossed her legs, and began to drink. A small fire was burning and Blackjack was cooking up a can of beans. She observed Blackjack as he cooked but Frank's eyes were on her. He remained crouched, staring at her intently. "May I be of some sort of assistance?"

His lips curved upward into a tiny smirk. He reached behind him, lifting up his coat. He retrieved his gun and put it on the bedroll beside her. He removed the other two from his holsters and put them down.

"Remington, Colt, my Giswold. You aint havin' that darlin', I'm awful sorry, but this saw me through the war. These two, well there aint so much of a difference, I suppose. Now, the Remington gon' be easier for you to reload, but these guns are a few years old. They get a personality o' sorts. Shoot different. So you're gon' try both, see which one feels best, which one you have a better aim with. Gon' have to get you a strap a sorts too. Keep it holstered to you. At the ready."

"I shall be keeping it then?" she asked.

"Holdin' it for me," he smiled. "If you prove reliable, I'll get you one o' your own."

"Then first I believe it appropriate that I be briefed on our current threat level," she said. Blackjack snorted. She shot him a scowl.

"Well, this here is the untamed west, darlin', I believe that's all the breifin' you'll need."

"You murdered a man last night. And I helped you," she said calmly. He waited, listening thoughtfully. "I believe I've earned the right to know what is occurring here."

Frank looked over at Blackjack. He shrugged, grunted, and spit.

"She's your girl," Blackjack said indifferently. Frank nodded and looked over his shoulder toward the river. When he looked back he picked up his Griswold.

"Roper 'n I… Roper 'n us, really, we've had some run-ins. I told you about that Jew he killed. Well, he uh… this aint to do with us. We was doin' a job, John, Ed 'n me, 'n Roper 'n his boys come ridin' in. This was up north… where was it, Ed, Taos?"

"Further North. We were damn near in Colorado."

"Wherever it may o' been," Frank waved a hand. "Anyway, he went 'n…. well…"

"We were scoutin' the area," Backjack interrupted. "Roll into a place when you're doin' a big job like this, and you need to know when guards change, how many guns the place got, how many people actually armed. I tell you, roll into a town where everyone and their grandma has a revolver on their hip, you turn 'round and hightail it outa there. This was a real peaceful place. Quiet. Farmers mostly. Had a bunch a churches. So we're on day three, maybe four, probably three, of our scoutin', ready to make our move, when Roper shows up. Guess there was a man in there that owed some rich prospector some money. They drag him out the inn to bring him back to Santa Fe for justice. Well, turns out he has the money on him. Just didn't want to pay. So Roper says, give him the money, and he'll let him go."

"That is fair," Arabella responded.

"Was," Blackjack agreed.

"Trouble was," Frank continued. "This man was married to the cousin of a man that had robbed Roper at a game o' blackjack. Roper knew this o'course. So he took the money, lined up the man 'n his family, shot every one o' them, save his wife 'n daughter, o'course. His three sons, a cousin, 'n him. Shot in the head."

"That is terrible," Arabella said.

"I remember lookin' at his little girl from my seat inside the whorehouse. Side of her face was covered. Covered. Blood… brains… fragments a skull."

"And what intelligence did you acquire for your plan from the inside of a brothel?" she asked him. Frank blinked and then his lips curved upward.

"This was years ago, lamb, long before I knew God had gone and graced the world with your darlin' face," he said. She looked at him, scowled.

"And so what does this have to do with us now?" she asked.

"Mans got a mean streak," Blackjack offered.

"A very vengeful mean streak, and uh… well, you got his brother killed," Frank said.

" _I_ did no such thing," she snapped. "You were the one that decided to unleash the savages. Which could very well have killed me, I will have you know."

"Not my plan," Frank admitted. He then conceded, "but you're right. I may know that. Blackjack, Brewster, John,  _you_. That's what we're tryin'ta tell you." He jabbed his temple. "He aint right. And though he aint never hurt a woman to my knowledge before… the fact that his brother got killed… I aint willin'ta risk you."

"You believe they will be coming for us?"

"I think they already have," he said. "That boy with the birthmark? One a Roper's."

"And… and you do not believe that he wants me for the reward any longer?"

"No. Maybe, but I don't think so," he said. Frank's eyes turned tender again. She enjoyed that boyish glimmer in his gaze, soft and shy. To know what he was capable of and to still be on the receiving end of that boyish, shy gaze had her heart beating firmly in her chest. He reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear. "But I think he might hurt you to get to me."

"Yes, the time it would take to find a replacement," she said with a breathy laugh, half joking, half questioning. He turned serious, very grim, and shook his head. He put his hands on either side of her face.

"There aint no replacin' you," he told her. "Ever."

"Besides, he'd have Susanna there to keep him occupied in the meantime," Blackjack grunted. "Frank."

Frank turned with a scowl and took the beans he was handing him. They were given to Arabella.

"Susanna… from Tularosa?" she asked.

"She's a whore," Frank dismissed with a grunt. Arabella looked to Blackjack. He was looking at Frank in such a way that Arabella believed there was far more to it than that.

"Once you've eaten, we'll take some shots with the guns. Don't have many bullets right now, but take a few shots, and see which one you want."

"I would like to swim," she said. "It is very warm."

"No complaints from me," Blackjack said.

"Shut your fuckin' mouth," Frank snapped. Then to her, "Later. Eat."

She spooned a mouthful of hot beans to her lips and looked around. Once she finished eating, Frank came over and began explaining the guns to her. He broke off when she picked up his Griswold, examining it closely.

"You aint gon'be shootin' that one," he told her.

"You used this in the war?" she asked.

"I did," he answered. He did not do much to try and hide his annoyance. He took it from her gently and put it back in his holster. "I think you'll like the Remington. The Colt is newer, both have solid accuracy, but Remington makes a better gun. When you take it apart, it's a better design, 'n it's gon' be easier for you to speed-load the cylinder. With the colt the barrel detaches fully. Can be tricky in the heat o' battle."

She frowned. He made it sound far more complicated than pointing and pulling a trigger.

"Speed-load the cylinder?" she asked. He thought a moment and then reached into his left coat pocket. He retrieved a cylinder and grabbed the gun in his other hand.

"Pull down on the loading lever," he demonstrated as he spoke. "Slid out the cylinder pin." He did so and tilted the gun. The cylinder popped out and he slid the other in. "Click it in, push in the pin, flip up on the lever, cock it back. Reloaded. Should be able to do it in about four seconds. But if we're in a shootout where you need do that, then we got bigger troubles."

"I must still learn," she said, reaching for the gun. It tilted up and his hand touched the barrel with a smile, pressing it downward.

"Muzzle control. That there's loaded," he said. She nodded, examined it, and then smiled.

"I want to shoot it."

"Couse you do," he said and grabbed her empty can of beans. He walked over to a boulder and put it on top of the rock. Blackjack took out a whiskey bottle, drank down the last bits of it, and then tossed it to Frank. "Stand here, darlin'."

She moved over to stand where he pointed.

"Raise her up, point, alright… see that ridge, line it up here, very good."

He stood behind her, his hands on her hips. His face was pressed close to her so he could look from her line of sight. They were only about ten feet from the can.

"Keep your wrist steady, grip firm, but don't squeeze too hard or it'll tilt."

His voice was a gentle murmur in her ear.

"Ready?"

She nodded.

"Shoot."

She pulled the trigger and the bullet exploded from the gun, a loud bang ringing through the air. The can flew from the top of the rock in a flash and her face lit. Her body coursed with excitement and she turned to look at Frank. He was smiling and Blackjack clapped lazily from the fire, sucking on a cigar and leaning against his saddle bags. He yawned loudly and crossed his boots by the fire to get more comfortable.

"I hit it," she cried with excitement. She looked back to Blackjack and he raised his cigar in congratulatory solidarity. "I hit it!"

Frank chuckled and walked around the boulder to retrieve the can. He picked it up and whistled. He put it on the boulder, but this time, added the bottle.

"Now, try hittin' this one," Frank said and stood a few feet to her right. She nodded and raised the run and pulled the trigger. Another explosion ripped through the air. It echoed in the hills. But the can did not fly from the boulder. The glass did not shatter. Her shoulders slumped and she let out a big gust of air from her nostrils.

"Don't be discouraged now, darlin'," he said. "Try again."

She did and to the same result. She let out a frustrated sigh.

"Typical," Blackjack grunted. She whirled around to defend herself but Frank was already coming toward her, a little grin on his lips.

"For any beginner," he clarified. "Didn't mean nothin' by it." He came to stand behind her again. He supported her wrist with his hand. "First shot was fine, yeah, because you weren't factorin' in the kick. Now, you know it's comin' 'n you're bracin' for it. So instead o' shootin' like this, right before you shoot, you're tiltin' it down, like this," he moved the gun so the barrel was angled ever so slightly downward. "Remember, the gun kicks  _after_ the bullet leaves the gun. 'N unless you pull the trigger again, another bullet aint comin' out. So aim it true."

He stepped away from her and she took her time. Her hand began to tremble. She couldn't hold it straight and every time she added the pressure to the trigger, she felt the gun dip downward. She let out a sigh of frustration and lowered the gun.

"Don't be worryin' about missin'," Frank encouraged. "We ain't gon' laugh."

She looked at him. He was stone faced. She looked to Blackjack. He shrugged. She nodded and, after a long, steadying breath, she raised the gun. She gave herself enough time to aim, forced herself to keep the barrel straight. She missed again.

"I should have simply never practiced," she mumbled. Despite his words, she could not help but be embarrassed.

"That was damn close," he said. "Damned close. I'm thinkin' you pull right. Right and high."

"I thought I was just shooting too low," she complained.

"We all pull one way or another. I tend to shoot high left. Need to compensate sometimes, focus just a bit harder."

He came to stand behind her again, his calloused hand running from her elbow to her wrist to her hand. His finger slid over hers on the trigger. His other hand touched her hip. Gently, he pulled her back into him. His voice was a slow, hot murmur against her cheek.

"Ridges matched, ah, ah, see? High and right."

It looked fine to her but then she watched him make the slight correction, it became quite clear.

"See that?" she nodded. Gently he applied pressure to her finger. The glass shattered and she felt a rush of excitement.

"Hmmm," Frank murmured and gripped her waist. "You just the perfect woman, aint'cha?"

Heat swarmed through her skin and turned her flesh red. His tongue trailed along the shell of her ear.

"Frank," she protested weakly. Blackjack was watching. His lips closed around her earlobe and he pulled her closer.

"I want you more 'n more every day." His teeth nibbled on her earlobe. His tongue slid up her ear again. "Feel what you do to me?"

"Frank, I… Mr. Blackjack," she whispered. He turned her face with a finger to her chin.

"He don't care. I could fuck you right here, wouldn't bat an eye," he murmured.

"I would," she breathed.

"Good thing you need a gun lesson," he said. "Or I'd put that to the test."

"You wouldn't," she breathed and he stepped away.

"Aim for the can," he ordered gruffly. Her now fluttering heart and trembling hand made it more difficult but she obeyed his order, raised the Remington, and fired.

* * *

She did far better than he could have believed she would. Though they could only take limited practice shots, as they only had so much ammunition, she was consistent. She would win no marksman contents, but if a man got close enough, she'd hit her mark. At the very least, she could provide cover or be a distraction. He was quite expressive in his instructions that if anything did happen, she was to obtain cover  _first_. Then shoot. She agreed but the entire situation had him on edge.

"She's comfortable."

Blackjack was reclining against his saddlebags. He sucked on a cigar calmly, looking up to the night sky. They could hear the running water even at their distance from it. The horizon was pink, fading too green, fading to dark above them. The air was cool and fresh and when Frank lowered his hand to Arabella's head and gently brushed back a curl of hair from her sleeping face, he found himself in a state of blissful contentment.

"Gettin' there," Frank agreed.

"You goin'ta keep her then?"

"Yeah, I am," he replied. Blackjack nodded slowly. He looked up at the sky and for a long time, they sat in silence.

"What is it? That you shouldn't have her? 'Cause she's a Yankee?"

"Can't explain it," Frank replied. "Don't much care to neither."

Blackjack nodded, his eyes not once leaving the sky above him. Frank turned to watch the pink dissipate from the sky.

"If she dies in all this, it's on you."

Frank's eyes slid from the horizon to his friend lying across the fire. Arabella shifted beside him. Her face brushed against his thigh. His knuckles brushed her cheeks once more.

"I won't let that happen," he murmured. His feelings were far too strong. He could not bear to see her harmed.

"Bet you said the same thing 'bout them Yankees rapin' Georgia. Happened anyway."

"That's different," Frank snapped.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

His voice was a bite and he felt a snarl come to his face. Blackjack fell silent.

"You take the first watch?" he finally asked. The sun had gone down. The pink had vanished. A chill set in the air. He offered no answer but a slow nod of the head. His brow was furrowed deeply. His lips were pressed together. His nostrils flared. Blackjack rolled over, using his rolled up hat as a pillow, and went to sleep. The fire captured his attention. His eyes glazed over as he watched the flames flicker in the growing darkness. He was ripped from his thoughts by a little whimper and a confused thigh. He looked over in time to see Arabella pushing herself up from her bedroll.

"Y'alright, darlin'?" he asked. She looked over to him and nodded. Sitting down on her ankles, she rubbed her eyes.

"It's cold," she murmured sleepily.

"Got a chill in the air," he agreed and removed his coat. He threw it over her shoulders and she slid her arms into his sleeves.

"Thank you," she murmured and crawled over to him. He watched, eyes twinkling in the firelight. She moved between his legs, nestling into his chest. Feet flat on the ground, knees bent, he wrapped his arms around her, cocooning her in his hold. Her hand touched his bicep, her head resting on his chest, and she closed her eyes again. His lips parted as his eyes ran over her face. His affection for her was frightening. It welled up within him in a powerful rush of emotion. It was like a damn breaking, or a wave crashing up against a flood wall and overrunning it. It made him feel vulnerable. So very, terribly vulnerable. It was as if at any moment she would disappear and he would be robbed of her. The terror that instilled in him was horrifying.

"How can you be awake?" she asked with a nod.

"Strung together a good many sleepless nights in the army," he said. "'Sides, midnight, we'll switch 'n I can get some sleep."

"May I shoot a little more tomorrow?" she asked.

"Once we get where we're goin'. Low on ammo right now."

She nodded sleepily and nuzzled his bicep with her nose. He swallowed thickly. Words bubbled up in his throat, but they could not pass his lips.

"You got the picture o' your mama?" he asked softly instead. She nodded once more, her body slumping against him. "I never did see it."

That stirred her.

"She's beautiful," Arabella told him as she dug into her skirt pocket. She retrieved it and opened the little case. His hand covered hers and he tilted the photo so he could see it in the firelight.

"That she is," he agreed. "Look just like her."

He examined it more closely and then leaned backward again, settling against the stump.

"Wish I had one o' my mama," he said. "Or Lily."

She leaned back into him and continued to look at the picture.

"I can't tell you… how much it hurts," he whispered. She pressed her face to his, kissed his bicep through his shirt, and rolled her head back so she could look at him. "You make me forget."

Her lips turned upward but it was not a happy smile. She pressed her fingers to his lips. She moved her hand and stroked his chin with her thumb and fingernails.

"Mathew didn't die at Antietam," she whispered. "He fell… but lived."

She blinked rapidly. Her eyes were wet.

"It's a good story though," she whispered. There was silence and he simply watched her face. Her eyes were up at the stars. His arm supported the back of her head, not unlike one would hold a babe. "He was taken prisoner, sent to South Carolina… or was North Carolina? I cannot recall presently. What does it matter now anyway?" She whispered with a smile. The smile very soon turned sad. Her eyes met his briefly and then they turned back up to the sky. "Father worked tirelessly to free him. He had business partners in the south. Men that were a part of the new government. They secured his release, sixteen months after his capture."

She looked at the picture in her hands.

"Mama and papa were so happy. We all were. We had the house prepared, his room reopened, new sheets, curtains cleaned. Mama put on order all of his favorite foods. Communication was poor in those days. The fighting. Mathew came home…. What we did not know is when they secured his release, it was the release of his body back to his family, not the release of a wounded prisoner."

Her face crinkled.

"It's bad enough… a man killing himself under such circumstances but…" she touched his chin again. She turned her tearful eyes back on him. "We're  _Catholic_."

"You don't be believin' all that," he said. She sniffled and wiped her nose with his coat sleeve. "God knows what's in a man's heart. You're brother aint in hell, same as my sister aint. No God o' mine punishes a person for bein' in pain."

"You believe so?" she asked.

"I know so," he said. "'N your brother weren't a coward, if that's what you were sayin'. He didn't run from battle. He fought. That's what matters. These camps… don't know how anyone survived 'em."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Aint sayin' it to make you feel good," he told her. He cupped her cheek with a hand. It was a lie. A lie he believed but he wanted nothing more than to take her pain away. "It's the truth."

She smiled and brought him down for a soft kiss. She snuggled back into him, clutching the picture of her mother close to her chest. He felt a sting of guilt but quickly pushed it away. She had come west all her own. He was not keeping her from a loving mother, but an undeserving fiancé.

His arms tightened around her. She murmured against his arm, "the stars are beautiful." He looked down but her eyes were closed. He looked back up and stared into the darkness.

* * *

Jonathan slapped the newspaper down with the others. The scowl on his face was both disbelieving and defensive.

"It isn't true," he said emphatically. He rose to his feet and circled around the window. Thaddeus stared grimly into space, contemplating thoughtfully. The man they had hired to help manage the rescue operation, an ex-Pinkerton, leaned back in his chair, legs crossed before him. The man that brought the papers into their room. Jonathan continued as he gaze out the window, hands on his hips, "Just trash these vultures make up to sell papers. Proceed as usual."

"It makes no difference to me," the ex-Pinkerton said. He had specially rolled cigarettes from New York in his hand but he did not light it. He never lit it. He rolled it between his fingers, put it between his lips, jabbed it into his thighs, but he never lit one. "I am being paid to find a girl. That is all."

Jonathan nodded grimly and squinted into the setting sun. He took a cigar from his vest pocket and lit it. He shook out the match and tossed it to the right. He did not care if it got into the trash basket or not.

"These papers," he finally turned from the window to speak again. He jabbed at the papers with his middle and pointer finger. "These are large productions?"

"The biggest in New Mexico, sir," Fitzwilliam said. He worked for Thomas Leicht, and though it was not said, the young man, without a doubt part savage, had a striking resemblance to the Pinkerton.

"I want them to cease their printing of such lies," Jonathan said. He went into his wallet and began removing bills. "Tell them, if they stay silent, they can count on equal payments until she is found."

Fitzwilliam agreed and hurried from the room with the mound of cash. Thaddeus did not even attempt to hide his scowl. He looked over to the clock on the wall. Jonathan moved the papers to the side so he could examine the map. Leight moved to the table when he saw the maps were being brought forward.

"I worry," he said to Leicht. "If they are moving, how can we be certain they will not circle back to where we have already searched?"

"I've been speaking to some who claim to know the outlaw. They swear he's not the type to hide in plain sight. If he was alone perhaps, but not with a captive. He would not risk her alerting authorities."

Jonathan looked up from the map and surveyed the room. He looked to the windows to find no one outside. Even so, he stepped toward Leicht and whispered, "And… if she were… Willing?"

Leicht frowned as he considered.

"Possible. But, if willing, he'd care for her safety one would think. A potential love match? Forbidden romance? He would not put her in harm's way… risk losing her. In my opinion."

Jonathan nodded.

"If she is willing then why are we here," Thaddeus asked. Jonathan looked up. His eyes burned.

"You can leave whenever you wish, sir."

Thaddeus gave a bitter smile. His eyes glimmered with dislike.

"All I mean to say is how do we know she  _wants_ to be found?" he asked. "How do we know she did not run away."

"Because she would not do such a thing," Jonathan responded. "And any more accusations from you will not be taken kindly. So please, should you wish to entertain this trash, you may leave my office now."

Thaddeus' hands trembled and he rolled his cramping shoulders. He remained silent and stared at the wall on the other side of the room.

"Hypothetically, sir," Jonathan said, voice hushed again. "Would it be at all possible to communicate that… that we simply wish to know she is well, that… if she wished to stay… I would not… force her from her current state?"

"Not without alerting the territory and all the papers back east that you think it's a possibility," Leicht said. Jonathan nodded slowly. "Some patience sir," Leicht added kindly. He patted Jonathan on the shoulder. "The west is a big place, but we'll find her."

"Thank you," Jonathan whispered. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his rosary. He ran his fingers over the beads. "She is a good girl." He shook his head. "A fine woman," he corrected.

Thaddeus let a gust of air from his lungs. Jonathan's eyes snapped upward murderously.

"Have you a differing opinion?" he asked. Thaddeus looked over at him.

"I am saying it is a possibility she is not as chaste as we once thought."

"I don't care if she's the fucking whore of Babylon!" Jonathan suddenly thundered. He had started toward Thaddeus, but Leicht held him at bay. Thaddeus looked at him with angry, damp eyes. His lips pinched together as he tried to still his trembling jaw. "She is my sister! We have solid reports she lives! My  _sister_."

"Yes. And my betrothed. You must understand, the news that she possibly ran away with this… this heathen affects me quite differently than it might you."

Jonathan stepped away from Leicht. He straightened out his vest and smoothed out his hair.

"It matters little," he replied. "As you will  _never_ be her husband. When she comes home, I will make sure of it. That is a promise I make to you now."

Thaddeus rose from his chair. He took his hat and placed it on his head calmly.

"I shall leave you to your business. Should you have need of me, I will be napping."

He turned and calmly left the room. Jonathan stared after him. It took Leicht's gentle prompting and a pat to the shoulder to draw him from his murderous thoughts and back to the maps.

"You said you were speaking to some of this outlaw's companions. Intimate friends?"

"No. But close enough."

Jonathan stared to the map, chewing his thumb nail down to the quick before taking a puff of his cigar.

"Tell me about them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, if you are reading, take the time to let me know your thoughts? Thank you!


	18. 18

18

She ran as fast as she possibly could, skirting along the bank barefoot, wearing nothing but her drawers and under shift. It clung to her as she raced along the mossy bank, her heart pounding painfully hard as she tried to flee her captor. She could hear him behind her as he pursued, closing in on her with each long stride. She chanced a glance over her shoulder and her stomach lurched. Her eyes widened and she turned again, pumping her arms and used the last of her energy to escape. She almost made it to the knotted tree with a power arm seized her. It squeezed around her middle and she was yanked into a hard body.

“Gotcha,” was the raspy growl in her ear. Her heart exploded as she was heaved into the air.

“No!” the was the screech that ripped from her throat. She went flying into the air and soon was submerged into the cold water. She thrashed in the water and pressed her feet onto the rocky bottom. She bent her knees and then thrust upward with burning thighs. Her hair flung upward into the hot air and her mouth opened, sucking in oxygen greedily. Already she could hear the splashing as he trudged through the water toward her.

“No!” she screeched again, but this time it trembled with laughter. She splashed at him, trying to flee through the water, but his legs were longer and he moved faster. His muscles glistened as the sun beat down on his wet skin. Veins pulsed in his biceps. His abdomen rippled. She looked over his shoulder to the knotted tree and cut to her right back to the bank. She’d never get passed him in the water. She splashed at him again, and he flinched backward, water burning in his eyes. She ran for the bank, tripping once on a root beneath the water, but immediately got back to her feet. He continued to pursue her and she stared at the knotted tree. She nearly reached it again but the back of her shift was grabbed. The wet, now see through fabric separated from her skin and she was yanked backward again. She thrust back and elbow and got him in the gut. He grunted, released her briefly, and then they both went stumbling back into the water.

“Dirty bitch,” he murmured and her smile widened. She tried to scramble away but he caught an ankle and yanked her back. She splashed down in the water and she was flipped over. Partially submerged in the water she looked up at him. Those crazed blue eyes gazed down at her and she dragged her finger nails lightly over his biceps. He breathed, “I win.”

“You cheated,” she panted and he growled. Her drawers were yanked down and she felt her legs being forced open. She reached up and touched his face. She grabbed the back of his head as he forced one of her les upward. A hand closed around her throat and held her still. She cried out as he entered her, pleasure immediately rippling through her and she clawed at his biceps. She loved the feel of the hard skin beneath her fingertips, the feel of his muscles buzzing and trembling. Masculine and powerful. Somehow, they moved by the time they finished. As she came down from her high, breathing hard and sweating hard, only her feet were still in the water. Her body was covered with dirt, sand and grass, staining her white shift. She held his had to her neck as he continued to pepper her throat with lazy kisses, licks, and nips.

“If that’s the prize,” Blackjack’s voice came from the tree line and Arabella yelped. She scrambled from beneath Frank, who immediately let her be, and she submerged herself into the water. She fixed her drawers and looked to Blackjack. “Then I want to play.”

“Get out of here,” Frank yelled and threw a handful of pebbles at him. Blackjack laughed and walked back down the shoreline. Frank looked back at her and she scooted further into the water, a little smile on her lips. He slid into the water, fighting the steady current as he approached her. She reached out for him and he grabbed her ankle, pulling her gently toward him in the trickling water. He kept his feet on the round and she closed her legs arounds his bips, her arms going around his neck.

“Must we return to the desert?” she asked him.

“Got to, darlin’,” he said softly. His arms were around her middle, holding her firmly. “Just for a bit.”

“I like it here,” she told him. She looked around. The sky was clear and blue, the shoreline green, trees lining the beautiful river, snaking around a gentle rise in hills to their left, coating with a smatter of desert shrubs.

“We’ll come back,” he promised.

“Your eyes,” she whispered. “They’re so beautiful.”

He walked them further into the river, pausing when she was in the water to her shoulders. He lifted her up some and she wrapped her legs around him more tightly. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers in a gentle kiss.

“Frank?” she asked when they separated, her nose still touching his.

“I like it when you call me Anderson,” he said softly. “My family… they never called me Frank.”

“Anderson,” she murmured. “Do you think… at some point, we might contact my brother?” she watched his eyes harden immediately. “Just to tell him I am safe. Merely to tell him I live.”

“The longer they think you’re alive, the longer they gon’ look,” he told her.

“But… imagine the fear. Imagine were it your sister –”

“Do _not_ use that against me,” he said lowly. “You forget you aint here willingly? ‘Cause I remember. I aint lettin’ anythin’ happen that’ll take you away from me. No more talkin’ on it.”

She nodded slowly.

“You are not angry?” she asked him.

“Nah,” he smiled and kissed her on the lips gently. “Not if you wan’make it up to me.” He grinned. A gold tooth glimmered.

“I... I cannot do that,” she blushed.

“’N why not?” he asked.

“Because it… it’s… vile,” she breathed.

“Hmm,” he smiled. “You even know what a man looks like, darling?”

“Of course,” she replied indignantly. “I have seen paintings and sculptures.”

He scoffed.

“Little pricked men made a stone don’t count.”

“Then no, I have not,” she replied shortly, hiding her embarrassment with anger. “I am a proper lady not some…”

“Well,” he smiled, turning them so her back was to the current. It felt nice against her skin. “You were.”

Her mouth often in insulted shock and he chuckled softly. His hands went to her bottom and he squeezed the skin firmly, pressing her into his manhood. She looked into those brilliant blue eyes a few moments more and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his.

“I never want to leave this place,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder. “You cannot swim in the rivers in the north. Not near the cities.”

“The North is a cesspool,” he murmured bitterly.

“Stop,” she said gently and lifted her head.

“Stop what?” he asked and she shook her head, touching the sides of his face. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. They remained in the water for some time. Sometimes kissing, sometimes speaking, sometimes just enjoying the feel of the cool water against their skin in the hot air. But then he looked up to the sky and squinted into the sun. He moved them slowly back up river. She almost fell to sleep on their short journey back, pressing her nose to his neck, occasionally placing a gentle kiss to his skin.

“Come on now, darlin’, time to get up,” he said. She pouted softly and shook her head. He chuckled and began walking them out of the water. He locked his arms beneath her bottom and she locked her ankles around his waist. He carried her with ease. And lowered her down on the bank. She rested on her back and let her eyes flutter open looked up into the bright blue sky.

“Hey,” Frank barked but she did not move. He wasn’t speaking to her.

“What?” Blackjack snapped.

“Look somewhere else,” he replied.

“Dress your fuckin’ woman then!” Blackjack barked. Arabella sat up, suddenly aware of the way her clothing clung to her. She could not dress just yet, with the fabric soaked, but she made sure to cover herself.

“Will we make it?” she asked. “To Arizona.”

“We’ll get into Arizona today, but not to our destination,” Frank replied, pulling his pants on over his shorts. She watched him as he dressed. Blackjack was readying the horses. They had been travelling for some hours before they stopped for lunch. They waited longer to swim on Arabella’s prompting. They had ended up staying far longer than they planned. She was grateful for that, but now spending another night outside was completely unappealing. They needed to wait another half hour for her to dry enough to dress.

Once she was, Frank came over to lift her onto her horse. She smiled at him as she was put in her saddle and he left his hands on her hips.

“When we’re hold up, I’m gon’ put you to work,” he said lowly so Blackjack could not here. She let out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah?” she asked softly.

“Oh, I’m gon’ drive you hoarse. And, I’m gon’ get you on your knees,” he said. She shook her head.

“I won’t,” she informed him and he chuckled as he got up onto his horse.

“At the very least, darlin’,” he called as they began moving ahead. “You won’t be doing much horse ridin’.”

Blackjack laughed as he stuffed his lip with tobacco. Her skin burned red. She narrowed his eyes at his back. She did her best not to smile. She failed.

* * *

When they made camp that night they were about ten miles from their destination. They could make that distance in no time at all in the daylight, but even if it were only Frank and Blackjack, they would have hesitated about pushing onward into the desert at night; with Arabella, neither were willing to take that risk. They settled by a large nettle of rocks so their backs were covered, about a mile from the river. At this time of year, the area was prone to flash flooding and Frank did much feel like being washed away while he slept. Arabella, he could tell, was not very excited about being out in the middle of the desert. She had herself up on one of the smaller boulders, scanning the ground anxiously for scorpions and poisonous snakes. Frank and Blackjack had tried to calm her, but after nearly an hour, after camp was set up, dinner was cooked, and both men were settling down before the fire, passing their flasks back and forth, they gave up.

“Blackjack,” Frank grunted and got to his feet. “Your lariat?”

“Sure, ‘cause I don’t want it tonight,” he grumbled as he surrendered it.

“Arabella, baby,” he said. “Come here.”

She looked at him from her rock, wrapping her arms around herself as the heat began evaporating into the clear night sky.

“Now.”

She hesitated a moment longer and then slid off the rock. She hurried over to him, looking around anxiously.

“Spread this around, ‘n Snakes won’t go over it. Scorpions neither,” he told her. It was entirely true, but it wasn’t a lie either. He touched her cheek and nudged at the rope with his boot. “Y’understand?”

She nodded slowly and turned those big brown eyes toward him.

“Promise?” she whispered.

“Promise,” he said, petting her hair. “Aint gon’ let anything happen to you. Remember, Ed ‘n I are gon’ be keepin’ watches, ‘n if anythin’ comes close we’ll stop it from gettin’ to you.”

She looked around and nodded again. Finally, she lowered herself down to the bedroll. He plopped down beside her. The fire crackled and Blackjack lowered himself down to the ground.

“Midnight,” he grunted and closed his eyes to go to sleep.

“I cannot fathom how you do not get tired,” she said.

“I get mighty tired, darlin’,” he said. “I’d be afraid to leave my eyes shut too long. I’d end up sleepin’.”

“Do you want me to keep watch?” she asked. He gave a chuckle but tried to keep it void of condescension.

“I aint gon’ make my woman do that,” he told her. There were a few moments of silence before she began scooting closer to him. A smile came to his face as she settled herself between his legs again, leaning back into his chest and looking up at the sky. He leaned forward, inhaling the scent of her hair deeply.

“The stars,” she said. “I so rarely look up.”

He looked up to the sky, wrapping his arms around her more tightly. He pressed his nose to her temple and kissed her again.

“Do you ever just look up and gaze at the stars?”

He looked up but could not appreciate the beauty. Not when he had her in his arms.

“You have one o’ them balls?” he asked. “You know,” he grinned. “Did you wear one o’ those fancy gowns, ‘n walk down the stairs all beautiful, drippin’ in diamonds, hair all did pretty?”

She giggled at the description.

“I did,” she answered. He ran his fingertips over the inside of her wrist, prodding gently for her pulse. He let out a breath as he thought of it.

“I bet you looked so pretty,” he said almost sadly. “Wish I could o’ seen that.” There was a long pause as she looked up to the sky. Her head was tilted back and le lowered his lips to her neck. “Course, you wouldn’ta looked twice at me. You’d walked right past me.”

“That is not true.”

“Nah,” he agreed bitterly. “You’d be too taken with disgust to look away.”

“You do me a disservice, Anderson,” she said softly, moving her hand and threading their fingers together. He looked at her small hand in his and felt that wave of affection. The terrible anxiety. The debilitating fear. The obsessive need to protect and possess. Love was a violent emotion. One that hurt as much as it pleased. “I’ve never treated you or your friends with disrespect.”

“Well, you couldn’t, could yuh,” he replied.

“I could have,” she said back. “If I wanted. If it were in my disposition. It is not.”

“Hmm, you’re just a pretty little kitten,” he smiled. He kissed her cheek again.

“Just?” she asked with mock offense. His lips turned upward. She turned to look at him. Gently, their lips met. She pulled away and pressed her finger tips to his lips, her thumb beneath his chin. “I like kissing.”

“That’s cause you like usin’ that mouth o’ yours,” he said. He chuckled and kissed her again. “Just a matter o’ time.”

“Stop,” she breathed but her protest was weak. His hands moved to her hips and slid up to her ribs. He stopped them just beneath her breasts.

“Aren’t you curious?” he asked.

“N-No,” she whispered.

“Hmmm,” he said and slid his hand between her legs. He pressed his fingers to her above her skirt. A soft moan left her and her hips bucked upward into her hand.  “Feel that?” he asked, pressing his erection against her bottom. She nodded. He shifted her, pushing her up over a leg so she was seated on the bedroll beside him. He leaned back against the boulder and reached for his belt buckle.

“I… I, please, Anderson,” she whispered and he shushed her gently.

“Trust me,” he murmured and lifted his free arm. “Right, here, sweetheart.”

Like a good girl, she came closer, tucking herself beneath his arm. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and he slid his hands into his trousers. He gave a quick glanced to Blackjack, but he was snoring peacefully. He looked back to his beautiful Yankee as he freed his erection. Her eyes, screwed tightly shut, brought a smile to his lips.

“Silly girl,” he said and retrieved her hand. Her protest was once again feeble. The feel of her cool, slender fingers wrapping around his erection brought a strangled groan to his throat. Blood rushed to his gorged organ. “That feel like one of your small pricked Greeks?”

She shook her head.

“No,” he breathed and closed his hand over hers. He tightened the grip and pulled it upward. He groaned as her hand brushed against the head of erection, his foreskin moving upward on his shaft. “Just feel it baby,” he breathed in her ear. He sucked on her earlobe, moving her hand up and down slowly. “Not so scary,” he cooed. “Open them big brown eyes. You be a good girl. Do what I tell you.”

“Ah,” she breathed. “Anderson?” It was a plea but he would not be moved. He let his hand drop. His heart swelled and his loins burned when she continued moving her hand up and down. He turned her face toward his with a finger to the chin. She tried to kiss him but he kept her at bay.

“Feel good, darlin’?” he asked. She nodded. “Open your eyes.” She shook her head. He gripped her chin. “I’ll take my belt to you right now.” He wouldn’t have. It was a bluff. But it paid off. Her eyes popped open, but they locked on his. His lips curved upward into a smirk. “There’s my girl,” he whispered. “So pretty.”

He kissed her lips softly.

“Go on then,” he said. “look.”

“It’s… improper,” she whispered, trying to fight her eyes from fluttering closed. Slowly her eyes moved downward and her lips parted. He pressed his nose back to her hair.

“Harder, darlin’,” he said. “Come on, now. Harder. Don’t be scared.”

He closed his hand around hers again and helped her tighten her grip. Her hands moved in fast, jagged motions. Her palm brushed again the head, sending electric bolts through him. With a pounding heart and a violent tremor through his muscles, he felt his climax rip through him. He strangled it, burying his face in her hair and groaning softly. He let out a steadying breath and then inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes and leaned against her, simply enjoying the feel of having her close.

“Is that…”

He moved away as her hand left his flaccid member. She was looking at her hand, covered with evidence of his climax.

“Yeah,” he told her and reached for the saddlebags. He grabbed the cloth he used when he shaved and wiped her hands clean, then himself. He tossed it into the fire afterward so Blackjack didn’t end up using it in the morning and putting a bullet in his head.

“So, that gets a woman pregnant?” she asked. He nodded.

“It does,” he replied. He grabbed her chin again.

“See, now that wasn’t so bad was it?” he asked. She shook her head.

“But… using my… well... to use my mouth… that is different,” she muttered in embarrassment. He was chuckling as he placed himself back into his pants. 

“We’ll get there,” he replied. A shiver worked through her. It was cool. Not too cold yet but he removed his coat and wrapped her in it.

“Come to the bedroll,” she whispered. It was far more arousing than any salacious, flirtatious beckoning he had ever heard leave the lips of any other woman to grace his bed. The innocent, longing, the very real affection he heard in her soft whisper.

“When it’s my turn to sleep,” he said. “I lie down with you now and I’ll be out in seconds.”

She pouted and considered the bedroll a moment.

“You will join me then?” she asked.

“Promise, darlin’,” he vowed. She nodded and laid down, holding his coat tightly. He looked to the flames, fighting off sleep. Orgasming now seemed like it had been a terrible idea. His eyelids struggled to say open. The he felt the gentle touch of her fingers on his hand. Slender fingers reaching out and curling around his on the hard, desert floor. Her eyes were turned upward to his, sleep turning them red. “Go on to sleep,” he pressed. A small lift turned her lips into a smile. Her fingers pulsed and then her eyes closed. He kept himself awake with the constant reminder that he needed to keep her safe.

It seemed like forever before he removed his watch from his vest and checked the time to find it a half hour past midnight. Frank threw a small rock at Blackjack to wake him. He tucked the gold watch back into his pocket and relished the ability to crawl up beside Arabella and close his eyes for the night. Blackjack opened his eyes with a sleepy frown on his face and then pushed himself into a seated position, groaning softly.

“You know, tomorrow, I’m sleepin’ on the bedroll,” he told Frank. Frank grunted. Blackjack wouldn’t take it from a lady. “Don’t worry,” he continued to grumble. He grabbed a stick and began to prod at the fire. “She can sleep with me.”

Frank did not even give him a reaction. He laid down beside her, gently pulling her closer, pressing her back to his chest.

“Goin’ta have to make ‘em think she’s dead,” Blackjack said softly. “Or that Yankee boy’ll keep comin’.”

Frank lowered his cheek down to the side of outstretched arm. He pressed his nose to the top of her head.

“World is goin’ta think you’re a woman killer ‘n a rapist. You’ll end up hangin’.”

Frank closed his eyes and pulled her closer. She let out a pretty little murmur or protest and turned her face. Her eyes did not open. She was like a babe searching for her mother. Her lips parted and then she turned back, nestling back into him, trusting in his ability to protect her. He swallowed thickly. He was done sleeping alone. He was done paying for a woman’s affection. He wasn’t letting her go. Let the world think what they wanted. They took everything from him. He deserved her. Blackjack said nothing more and Frank fell into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

Frank woke to the smell of bacon and eggs sizzling over a fire and the sound of soft murmurs. His nose crinkled but he did not stir awake. Disoriented as he may have been, he knew the voices he heard were friendly. He reached out around him when he found his arms were empty.

“No, but when I was young I went to Richmond. I can scarcely remember any detail. I’ve always found southerners to be staggeringly arrogant.”

“Met many of ‘em?” Blackjack’s gruff voice came to Frank’s ears and he was struck with some annoyance. Yesterday he had awakened with his sweet Yankee in his arms. He had been able to smell her, touch her soft skin, murmur softly to her as they prepared to start the day.

“In New Port and New York city,” she answered. “They would come for business mostly. Men from Richmond rarely tried to break into New England society.”

“Richmond is our New York,” he explained. “Where all the rich men try to get to. Don’t think Virginia represents the south though. They don’t represent me.”

“I hated the accent… the slow drawl. ‘Well then, darlin’, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Jedidiah Banks. A true pleasure. Pleasure,’” she said in a remarkably accurate Richmond accent. “I could have been the mistress of a vast plantation had I accepted his suit. A handsome man, as well, five years my senior, and the plantation survived I am told. He still does quite well. But that accent. And the entirety of his stay at my father’s home consisted of him lecturing me on the inferiority of the North.”

“Never was fond a Virginians. Served with some of ‘em durin’ the war.”

“And what state do you hail from, Mr. Blackjack?”

“Kentucky.”

“And you fought for the South?” she asked.

“I’m southern,” he answered.

“I suppose,” she replied.

“How I met Frank. Angry, hateful drunken child come stumbling into my uncle’s tavern, plays a hand o’ cards worse than anyone I ever seen, ‘n nearly gets himself killed after fightin’ in that damned war for all them years.”

Frank opened his eyes and turned his head toward the pair before the fire. Arabella had a cup of coffee to her lips. She lowered it with a thoughtful frown on her lips, a considering glimmer in her gaze.

“He has been through very much,” she murmured. “Too much.”

She turned her gaze toward him and they’re eyes met. He remained where he was and she smiled. She reached forward and poured him a cup of coffee. He did not smile as she came toward him, but as he sat up to take the cup from her, his chest warmed.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he said.

“Your woman there is quite the he strategist,” Blackjack said.

“He is mocking me,” Arabella pouted and moved back to the fire to collect her own cup of coffee.

“I am not.”

“We were debating Gettysburg earlier this morning,” she told Frank.

“Your woman went to Yale,” he informed Frank. Frank looked to Arabella.

“I did not attend the school,” she disagreed. “My father made arrangements for me that I might sit in with my brother and cousins in their lessons.”

“Stole me a smart one,” Frank grumbled but he was brimming with pride. How could he ever go to any other woman after knowing her.

“Where did you fight at Gettysburg?” she asked him.

“I don’t talk about Gettysburg,” he answered. “Lost the war with that fight.”

“My papa said the south lost the moment they invaded the north. God turned from you.”

“God had nothin’ to do with it,” Blackjack grumbled.

“I agree,” Arabella said. “Superior fighting force or not, the South was never going to win that war,” she added to both men’s rising anger. Her only saving grace was the matter-of-factness in her tone. There was no arrogance or condescension. Just simple truth. She pushed herself to her feet and looked around.

“Y’alright?” Frank asked.

“I must… relieve myself.”

“Then go relieve,” he answered. She looked around at the stretch of desert around them, then looked to the rocks at his back. “Go ‘round that way, we won’t see you.”

She nodded slowly but did not move. She looked to Frank with a grimace on her face.

“Darlin’?”

“Snakes,” she whispered and he chuckled.

“You’ll be fine. Promise,” he told her. She bit her bottom lip and he saw the anxiety building up in her eyes. She collected her skirts and made to move around the side of the rock. He suddenly feared she might see a snake and grow to distrust him. He put the coffee cup to his side and got to his feet.

“Darlin’,” he said and she whirled around, relief flooding her gaze. She followed him along the rocks and he looked for critters. He kicked over smaller rocks, looked for holes in the hard dirt. “All clear.”

“Will you stay just there?” she asked. She pointed to the left of the boulders. He nodded and walked over to the spot indicated. He past her as he did and patted her on the bottom.

“Take your time,” he winked. Her face brightened with red mortification. He laughed as he went to his waiting spot.

* * *

They rode through the desert for the next few hours. Arabella was greedy with the water. Frank was either a camel or hid his thirst very well, for not once did he refuse her the canteen when she asked for it. She did not think she saw him drink from it once. Once, she reached over from her horse to touch a cactus. She ran her fingers over it and made a little cry when she felt a prick to her finger. It turned Frank’s head and immediately he began whirling his horse around.

“What could possess you to start jabbin’ at a cactus, stupid girl,” he scolded. She frowned and looked at the red skin.

“It’s not… it’s not toxic is it?” she asked in sudden terror.

“Nah, but they can itch like hell. ‘Specially with those’n’s,” he said and took hold of her fingertips. “See the little barb?”

She squinted and indeed there was a tiny little barb in her fingertip, the skin already growing red and puffy to try and reject the foreign material. He brought her finger to his mouth and nibbled gently at the skin. He bit out the barb and spit it away with a shake of his. He gently nudged her chin with his knuckles.

“No more touchin’, huh?” he said and turned the horse.

“I’ve never been so close,” she defended herself weakly, but she made no more attempts to touch the sharp plants. They stopped more than once as Arabella jumped off her horse to examine a plant or flower more closely. The men waited patiently, but their annoyance was evident on their faces. Arabella made no affect to speed up. She was far too curious. It was not until Frank reminded her gently that water was limited that she ceased her dawdling. It was a little past noon when they Frank dropped back to ride beside her.

“Stay here a week or so,” he said. “It’s safe. Then, I was thinkin’, you ‘n I can cut out somewhere. I never seen an ocean.”

“We could go to the ocean?” she asked happily.

“California, or the Gulf, by Texas,” he said. “’N then, Reginald told me ‘bout this place in the North. Said it’s beautiful, with ton’s a lakes. He never seen it, but he said he read about it.”

“Minnesota,” she smiled.

“You seen it?” he asked. She shook her head.

“Never, but I would love to,” she told him. He nodded. “And then, we can go see the Rocky Mountains.”

“I seen mountains,” he said. “They just big things o’ rock.”

“But I want to see them,” she said.

“Then we’ll go,” he answered.

“Could we… I want to be close to one of those large rock formations. The ones that tower upward.”

He smiled over at her.

“I know where I’m takin’ you,” he said. “I got a place to show you.”

She smiled. Very fast the landscape turned flatter, rockier, and the plants and flowers began to disappear. She was staring down at her saddle when Frank said her name. She almost missed it, so deep she was in her thoughts. She looked over at him and he nodded in front of them. She turned her head and oxygen rushed from her lungs. Before them was a giant field of grass, stretching for miles upon miles, and surrounding them in a circle orange rock were towering mountains and ridges.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“Sure is pretty,” he agreed and spurred the horse on. The home was a little outpost by a trickling river. It went dry in midsummer, but now the rains would be coming. There was a nice little compound they arrived at. The house itself was rather large for the area. Four bedrooms in total, a little kitchen and a dining area that was used mostly for card games and drinking. There was a little stable that could fit six horses snugly and a barn that held some life stock. The stream was nothing to write to home about, but overall, she was not displeased by the location.

“I’m gon’ sleep for the next few days, darlin’,” he told her as he jumped from the horse. “Hope that don’t bother you.”

“Am I allowed to explore?” she asked him.

“Eh… not too far,” he said. “Don’t want you getting’ lost. Plus, they don’t tend to bother people but there’s still rattlers about. They poisonous, so…”

“Venomous,” she corrected, looking around. He blinked at her. “Venomous,” she said again. “Poison you ingest. Venom is injected.”

He seemed unimpressed and she pet the nose of her horse.

“Will I be keeping this horse for some time?” she asked him. He nodded and was already removing the saddle. The horse was sweating.

“Guess so.”

“I must name him then,” she mused. The front door swung open and a man came down the steps, eyes wide and lips open. “Grant,” she smiled. Frank gave her a hard look. “Ulysses.”

She giggled and he looked to the new comer.

“Could have named him Sherman,” she muttered and he looked back to her, jabbing a finger in her direction.

“Oh, I’m paintin’ your bottom red for that one,” he said angrily. Her lips parted in indigent surprise.

“The fuck is wrong with you, Brewster,” he said and another man came out the front door. Arabella recognized John Canton and gave him a smile and a nod of greeting. He looked her over curiously and pinched the brim of his hat, a small cigar glowing between his chapped lips.

“Uh, well,” he was cut off when Frank swung hard, landing a violent punch to the nose. Arabella’s lips parted in shock. She heard bones cracking and he stumbled backward. He held his nose, blood spurting down his mouth and staining his shirt. “The fuck was that!” he cried, voice cracking.

“For sending savages after my woman. Damn near killed her,” Frank scolded.

“I got her back,” Brewster cried indignantly.

“Goddamned lucky you did to,” Frank said, coming toward him again. He reached down and offered a hand. He hauled the man back to his feet and grabbed hold of his broken nose. He wrenched it to the side, straightening the sore appendage. Brewster cried out and tossed Frank away angrily.

“You’re about to be angrier, Frank, save your energy,” John said and came toward him. Frank frowned and then the door swung open again. Arabella felt her stomach sink to her toes as she watched a young man with a smug grin on his face hope down the steps.

“Mr. Lawson, sir!” he called with a pinch to the brim of his hat. “Blackjack. The lady,” he added with a deep bow. Another man walked down the stairs, a man she recognized, but could not place, and then another. They did not outnumber them, that calmed her down. But Frank looked far from pleased.

“Billy. Topher. Chris,” Frank greeted them. He lifted his hat, wiped back his hair, and put the hat back on. “What’re you boys doin’ here?”

“Haven’t had much work past few weeks,” one man said. “You say we can’t act without your say so ‘n then you go ‘n disappear.”

His eyes found Arabella and he came a rotten toothed smile. Arabella looked toward Frank. Without having to say a work, Blackjack moved in front of her, putting up an arm to lean over his horse.

“Have somethin’ in mind, Topher?” Frank asked.

“Aint that why you’re the boss?” Billy asked with a grin. Frank squinted at them, looked back at Arabella, and then grunted as he turned his attention back to Billy.

“You boys wan’ do somethin’ on your own for once? Go on and do it. I got other things to worry ‘bout,” he said. He looked over to her again and held out a hand. “Come on, darlin’. Horses to the stable.”

The horses were lead forward and Frank made sure her body was blocked from view the entire time.

“Anderson?”

“Be quiet,” he said and looked over his shoulder to Blackjack. Blackjack and he held each other’s gaze a moment. Blackjack gave a little shake of his head. Brewster came into the stable, bumping into a post as he wiped blood from his nose.

“Frank.”

“ _Be. Quiet,”_ he said and Brewster fell silent. John remained by the door, leaning against a beam. His eyes were alert, but his body was relaxed. Arabella was brutally aware of the tension.

“Well thing is,” Topher said, coming into the stables. The area between the three stalls was cramped. Everyone stood close to another and Frank kept his horse out of the stall. It stood between Arabella, Blackjack, Frank and the others. John stood behind three men. “We had just that mind. You know… doin’ something on our own.”

Frank brought up an arm behind himself and slowly lifted the gun from his belt. His shoulders hardly moved and he held it back toward her. She took it as subtly as she possibly could. She looked over to find Billy staring at her, a lustful, aggressive glimmer in his eyes. She looked to Topher. His gaze was on her as well, but more critical, more professional in its nature.

“That so?” Frank asked. He had his own hand on his pistol. Blackjack put his hand on Arabella’s hip and nudged her to her left. She had Frank, the horse, and a beam supporting the stable roof in front of her.

“Yeah,” Topher said. His gaze flickered from Arabella back to Frank. He smiled. “I’ll tell yuh bout it inside. John? Mind resetting so our new friends can join in?”

“I don’t care,” John grumbled.

“Chris, Billy, come on,” Topher called and they all left the stable. John threw a pointed look toward Frank and Blackjack before turning and following them inside. Frank stared after them, nudged his horse into the stable and then grabbed Brewster by the throat. The man’s brown eyes widened, his blackening eyes and crooked nose wrinkling in fear, and his hands rose up in supplication.

“The fuck is wrong with you, Brewster. The fuck wrong with you?”

“What I – They just showed up –”

“And you didn’t to think to send a fuckin’ rider? You didn’t think to fuckin’ warn me?” He asked, slamming his head against a post and then backing away. Arabella had never seen him so frightened. This angry, yes, flustered, no. “I wouldn’t a brought her here!” he said, voice breaking.

“Frank,” Blackjack said calmly. Frank whirled around to look at him. He saw the calming gaze in Blackjack’s eyes and settled down some. He looked to Arabella.

“We leave now,” he said. “Brewster, you tell John. He can follow North if he wants, but only once they realize we left.”

“We can’t,” Blackjack said.

“The fuck we can’t,” he spat back.

“We got no more food. No water. We goin’ further into the desert? How many miles till we hit Powell, or the Colorado? She’ll die first. You want that?” he asked. Frank stepped toward him, eyes burning, and held up a finger.

“They’re after the reward.”

“I know that,” Blackjack said calmly. “But we need to be smart about this.”

“We fill up and go.”

Blackjack grabbed the front of Frank’s vest.

“You got so far, ‘cause you got a calm head, Frank. You got a calm head. Don’t let yourself flustered now.”

“Aint nothin’ matter like this before,” Frank whispered. Arabella stepped forward, placing an affectionate touch to his arm. He looked toward her.

“If it comes to it, I’ll fight with you,” she told him.

“But I don’t _want_ it to come to that. I don’t even wan’ risk it,” he said. He looked to Blackjack. “There’s gotta be a way.”

“There is. We go in there. We eat. Play a hand a cards, water up. Slip outa here at night. They be sleepin’, drunk, don’t know we’re gon’ till midday.” Frank began to protest but Blackjack held up a hand. “We go haulin’ off now. Tired horses, no water, no food, just the three of us, four, if Brewster come, but that just goin’ta alert them sooner, that girl’ll die.”

Frank barred his teeth and punched a fist into his palm.

“We go in now. Rest some. The horses. Fill up. Leave tonight once they stupid in drink. Brewster you got whiskey?”

“Whiskey and moonshine.”

“Alright?” he asked. Frank hesitated and then nodded.

“Arabella,” he said, coming to her. He touched her face. “You need to do what I say.”

“I will,” she promised. He took the gun from her and slipped it in her waistband.

“Keep like that, so if you need to, you can grab it quick.”

“They’ll see it,” she pointed out.

“Let them.”

“Ed, our backs are to the door. Anythin’ happens in there, you get her out, y’understand? She don’t get hurt.”

“My word.”

“Brewster. You got water, food?” he nodded. “I want these saddlebags ready. Within the hour.”

“Yessir.”

“John… well, he’ll know what to do. None of y’all drinkin’ any liquor tonight. Y’hear? Not a goddamned drop.”

“Don’t much want the hangover. A few sips’ll do me good.”

“Fine then,” Frank said. “Come on then.”

“Anderson,” she whispered. He looked back at her. “I’m scared.”

“Aint gon’ let them hurt you,” he smiled. Suddenly he was calm, jovial, and smiling. It calmed her, but now she knew how much was going on beneath the surface when this façade was put on. “Not a hair.”

“They won’t hurt you?” she asked.

“They might try but… I’m a better shot.” He winked and turned to leave. She grabbed him by the wrist. He turned with raised eyebrows.

“Anderson,” she whispered again. He leaned forward and cupped her cheeks. He placed a soft kiss to her lips.

“I’ll be fine,” he said and kissed her again. “Everything’ll be all right.”

He offered his arm and took it, holding him tightly. She could not help but feel as she walked toward the forsaken home in the middle of the desert, that they were walking toward an execution.

* * *

Frank entered the room with the smiling countenance of a man greeting friends he had not seen in months. Within, he was trembling, His muscles itching to pull the trigger and send those godforsaken friends to hell. He knew John knew what to do. Blackjack knew what to do. Brewster knew what to do. He simply needed to make sure that Arabella didn’t get harmed in the process. 

“What’ve you boys been up to then, eh?” he asked, plopping his hat down on the table with a smile. He pulled the chair out for Arabella and sat down. John looked up from beneath the brim of his hat and pulled the cigar from between his lips.

“We gon’ play cards with her?” Chris laughed. He looked around at the others and they chuckled.  “Get yourself into the kitchen darling, rustle us up something good.”

“You don’t tell her what to do,” Frank snapped. “Ever.”

Chris’ slate eyes hardened. His face turned to stone.

“You got something to say?” he asked. He leaned back and put his hand to his gun. Topher’s shouldered stiffened and Billy’s eyes darted from man to man.

“Matter a fact, we do,” Topher said. Frank looked to him. John was looking at Billy. He knew damn well Blackjack would be staring at Chris.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Topher said. “We uh…we always split things yeah. Even.”

Frank’s gaze was hard.

“Till her.”

There was a long pause of silence. Frank heard his heart pounding in his ears.

“So we were talkin’ and... first we just wanted a piece of her too, y’know, enjoy the spoils. We well helped in that ‘member. But now we thinking… we thinkin’  we go cash in on that reward. We rode together a long time Frank, we both just poor boys from Georgia. They didn’t want me to talk to you. I could a just shot you when you rode up,” he said. “I’m givin’ you a chance.”

“A chance,” he smiled. “A chance to whore out my woman or give her up? Neither a those sound too appealing.”

“It’s climbin’. Five thousand they say. You know how much money that is?” he asked in exasperation. “Don’t you tell me she’s worth that.”

“I’m givin’ you a chance to run,” Frank said. “You boys wan’ get up ‘n go right now you can. She aint goin’ nowhere.”

“Told you he wouldn’t go for it,” Billy said in a panic. “Well I don’t care. I don’t care. ‘For we collect, I’m gon’ teach that woman her place –”

“Billy shut up!” Chris shouted.

“You boys are dead,” Frank said. “Dead as dead can be. You think you bring her back there, after rapin’ her, and they gon’ just give you the reward?”

Chris blinked.

“The body,” Billy said. “The body’ll be worth something.”

“Yeah,” Frank laughed. “A noose round your scrawny neck. You think that yankee boy gon’ pay for her violated corpse?”

His hand tightened around his gun. He chanced a glance over to Arabella. She had a hand on her own. Her eyes were wet. Her lower lip trembled. He was overwhelmed with the anger that brought him. He looked back to Topher with a scowl on his face.

“You done the violatin’ already,” Chris said. He looked to Arabella.

“No one’s gon’ violate her!” Topher shouted, slamming fist down on the table. “We just wanna collect the reward. That’s fair, yeah?”

“Yeah… yeah it’s fair,” Frank said. Topher relaxed, a smile on his face. Billy looked to Chris. Chris was glaring at Blackjack. “How you planning on makin’ off with her though. You’re outnumbered.”

He heard a gun cock behind them.

“No, a regretful voice said. “They aren’t.”

Frank turned slowly in his seat to see the barrel of Brewster’s gun to his face.

“Huh,” he grunted with a small nod.

“I’m sorry Frank. That money’ll set me up for life,” he said, agony on his face. It didn’t move him.

“Never do know who to trust,” Frank said. He felt the gun pressed to the back of his skull. He stood and turned, looking to Brewster.

“Gutless,” he said with neutral voice and face, but disgust in his eyes. He shook his head. “Gutless.”

Frank pulled his gun. Brewster tried to shot but Frank grabbed his wrist. It fired over his right shoulders. His ears wrung painfully but he turned. Topher fell to the table with a bullet to his head and chest with a loud thud. Bullets continued to fly into his body as Arabella nervously shot into the crowed of enemies. They were foolish to have sat on the same side of the sable as they had. It was ironic, Topher’s attempt to avoid bloodshed, only hastened their deaths.” There was a flurry of gunshots. Billy fell with a bloody arm. He reached for it to try and stop the bleeding. Idiot let his gun drop to the floor. In two large strides, Blackjack was over him, putting a bullet through his head.  Chris got off a shot, but collapsed next, blood spurting from his throat, gushing out from his chest where his heart was now pumping blood through a hole in his shirt. He looked around, surveying for any more danger.

“Anderson?”

He turned. The soft, frightened voice.

“Y’alright darlin’, y –”

His blood ran cold. His face tingled. His heart stopped beating. She had her hands to her stomach. A tear slipped from her eye. She removed one hand and examined it. Red blood covered her delicate hands. His ears were still ringing. Her skin was white.

“My goodness that hurts,” she breathed. He stared wide eyed, lips parted. He felt numbness. Agony. He took a few steps forward but he could not remember moving. She fell against him and it took every ounce of strength he had in his soul not to collapse to the floor himself.


	19. 19

Frank sat at the table in a daze. Blood covered his hands, stained the front of his handsome new vest. His eyes burned but they would not blink. They stared at the corner but no one spot caught his attention. The world was fuzzy and his heart was numb. He looked up as John entered the room and his lips parted. John looked grim and he shook his head. Frank felt his stomach plummet to his toes. He sagged in the chair. His mouth went dry as his jaw hung open. There was a piercing pain in his chest. A worse pain than any manmade weapon could ever cause the human body. It was the feeling of absolute despair. Suddenly, the world was a far darker place. The west had been ruined the way the south had.

"She needs a doctor."

His head snapped up. He felt a stab of hope. Very cruel, painful hope. The knife in his heart twisted.

"She lives?" he asked, getting to his feet. John took a cloth into his hands and wiped the blood from them.

"Bleedin' stopped but…. The bullet's lodged in there. I can't get to it here. She needs a doctor."

He stared to the wall. Eyes glazed again. His eyes turned damp and he looked up to the ceiling.

"I have to let her go."

It was a painful realization. One that was spurred on by the tragic circumstances they found themselves in, but not borne of it. He suddenly realized he could not bear to be apart from her. He could not bear to go a day without listening to her voice or seeing her smile or hearing her laugh. He wanted to hear her say those fancy words and spit out those strange facts of hers. He wanted to take care of her, to keep her safe and give her everything she could ever want. That was why he needed to let her go. Because for the first time in a decade he loved someone more than he loved himself.

He crouched down to balance on the balls fo his feet. He dug his fingers beneath his hat and pulled loosely at his hair. His face crinkled as a sob threatened to burst from him. John lowered his eyes and turned his head. Frank's hat fell from his head and he pulled at his hair angrily.

"Ride," he started but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and spoke again with authority. "Ride for Santa Fe. Bring her brother to San Juan. Blackjack 'n I will get her there."

"I don't know if she'll survive the journey," John said gently.

"Think she'll live if she stays here?" Frank asked. John lowered his eyes and shook his head.

"Go now. We'll be drivin' through the night. I'll have her in San Juan tomorrow," Frank said. ""n John," Frank said before he left. "Don't try 'n collect the reward."

John nodded his assent and left the house.

As he began walking to the hall it felt as though his feet was made of cement. He closed his eyes and felt another stab of pain. He pushed it down until he did not feel it anymore. The shame of what he had done could wait. He had done wrong by a good woman. He'd failed her. But he could do one last thing for her and that was to get her home safely. Alive. After that he could drown himself at the bottom of a bottle so he might never feel this horrid again. He found Blackjack seated on the steps, shoulders hunched and eyes toward the dusty floorboard. He looked up as Frank walked past him toward the room he had carried her too. He had been too scattered to remain. Blackjack had ushered him from the room while John did the best he could do with what little he knew.

"Get the wagon ready," he said simply. He walked on and paused outside the door. His hand closed over the door handle and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the door. For the first time in years he closed his eyes and opened his heart to God, begging him to see her through this safely.

_Do not punish her for my sins. Strike me down. Smite me you bastard. Let her live. Please._

He turned the handle and stepped into the room. His brow furrowed and he swallowed roughly. His lips remained parted, but held close together. She lay on the bed, pale faced, white lips, circles beneath her eyes. Her dress was stained red, the sheets around her dark and wet. He felt tears again and was overcome with the urge to flee. She turned her head from the window and looked toward him with tired eyes. Her fingers wiggled but she could not lift her arm. He came toward her at her beckoning and crouched down by the bed, taking her cold little hand and bringing the fingers to his lips. He pressed her hand to his face and screwed his eyes shut.

"Am I going to die?" she whispered. She was lethargic. Her skin was cold. He raised his other hand and gently lifted the shift. John had cut her dress away in order to see the wound. It lay in shreds in the corner. It was compressed with cloth, wrapped tightly around her middle, and stained red, but it did not ooze around her skin. He would have liked to see the wound, but he found relief that the bleeding had stopped.

"No," he whispered back. "We're gon' bring you to a doctor."

"I don't want to move," she told him.

"Got to, darlin'," he said. He stroked back her damp hair.

"I shot him," she said, a weak tilt to her lips. "I got him."

 _We should have left,_ he thought as he lowered his face so she could not see his distress. The agony he was in. He thought he had moved past such pain. He did not think he would ever have to feel it again.

"You're a good girl," he said. _I'm gon' think on you till the day I die._ "You hurtin'?"

"I can't feel it," she said. "Anderson?"

Her eyes pooled. The fear he saw pierced his heart and oxygen fled from his lungs in a painful rush.

"I don't want to die," her voice was like a whispered croak, soft and quite but squeaky and broken.

"You ain't gon'to," he promised. "I ain't gon let'cha. I promise. I… I aint gon' let you die."

She smiled softly and raised her hand to touch his mouth.

"Because you'll never let me go?"

"Right." It was his turn to croak. He stroked her sweaty hair. He looked up to the ceiling. "I'm sorry." He shook his head and lowered his forehead to the bed. "I'm so sorry."

"You didn't shoot me," she whispered. She ran her fingers through his hair weakly. Her strength left her with her hand still tangled in his sandy blond locks. He looked up at her with wet eyes. Hand still on the bed, she lifted a finger and gently wiped away a bead of water from his chin.

"You'll stay with me?" she asked.

"Always," he said. It wasn't a lie. Not really. She'd never be gone from his thoughts. He hoped when she thought back on him, she might find some fondness for him. He hoped she might defend him to others, even only a little. Her eyes slowly fluttered closed. "Darlin'," he said softly.

"I'm tired," she whispered.

"I know you are, darlin', but stay awake a little bit longer, alright?"

"Just… a small rest," she said. He tapped her cheek.

"It's a bit early for sleepin'," he said. She misunderstood.

"A fine time for a nap."

"Darlin'," he said but fell silent. A pained grimace came to his face. Countless friends, he had seen, lying on the battle field or in a putrid hospital tent, closed their eyes for a little nap. Just to build up their energy. They never woke up again.

"Cold," she whispered as a bead of sweat fell down his temple.

"Stay awake, Arabella," he whispered, gently patting her cheeks. "Please stay awake."

But her eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell slowly but steadily. He pressed his tongue to the corner of his mouth and reached out gently. He trailed his fingertips over her lips, cheekbones and brows. Trying to memorize every little detail of her face. He imagined a big, pretty house by the ocean. Servants and maids and butlers, pretty dresses and suits, large, vast gardens like he had seen on the Newark plantation. He saw Arabella there, laughing and smiling, little children running about her. He tried to put himself there but couldn't. That was the life she wanted. That was the life she needed. He'd never be part of her world. Ever.

"Wagon's ready," Blackjack murmured after an unknown amount of time. Frank stroked her cheek gently.

"John gone?" he asked.

"Riding hard for Sante Fe."

Frank closed his eyes as he pushed himself to his feet with two fists to the bed. He remained hunched over. Blackjack placed a hand on his shoulder and he hung his head further. He shook his head from side to side.

"It hurts cause it's the right thing," Blackjack said. "Got the mattress from the other room in there. Some blankets and a cover case o' rain. You 'n I can take turns drivin'. It ain't gon' be fun for her, but if we stop, she got no chance."

Frank nodded. Very carefully he scooped her up in his arms. Immediately she awoke. Her brow furrowed and she whimpered in pain. She moved her hand to her stomach wound and he did his best to straighten her in his hold. Blackjack lead the way, opening doors for him as they walked. He helped him lift her up into wagon and settle her on the mattress. Blackjack had three jugs of moonshine on the wagon. It was not for drinking. That was what the whiskey was for. He gave her a few sips before they set off and once she was soundly asleep again the wagon began rattling east. Frank had Topher's old rifle draped across his legs as he leaned against the side of the wagon, staring at her weakened form blankly.

The days floated in to one another. One moment he was seated beside her, murmuring softly to her when she was awake. Then he was driving through the night as she slept It was when she awoke in pain that he felt the most agony. To know what she was going through and to know he was responsible was almost too much to bear. He was not sure how many times Blackjack insisted they do it, but he was force more than once to sit behind her and hold her arms close to her chest he poured the moonshine into the wound. Blackjack swore by it, but Frank could not help but think that putting alcohol in it would only do more damage. It needed to be covered and left alone until a doctor looked at it. But Frank trusted his friend and continued to do so no matter how loudly Arabella cried.

He was driving as they came upon the little town. It was the middle of the night and Frank slowed the cart to a halt. Bobby Lee, tethered to the wagon dragged on by the mule, came up beside them and snorted. Frank stared at the town. Blackjack remained asleep in the back of the wagon with Arabella. A force kept Frank from moving forward. His chest began to ache again.

"I love you, Arabella," he whispered up to the stars. His jaw trembled. "I'm sorry."

He remained seated a few moments longer, simply relishing being near her, even if he was not touching her, not looking at her. But as time stretched on, the pain only grew, and it threatened to undo him. He jumped from the wagon and awoke Blackjack with a soft pat of the hand. The hair was hot and still. Not the slightest of breezes came through the air. Still Arabella shivered beneath the blanket they had wrapped her in. Frank rubbed a hand over his face as he tried to regain control of himself.

"You stay here with the horses 'n I'll bring her in. Make sure she's safe 'n…" he cut off. His throat hurt. It constricted and he could not speak any further. His eyes moved toward the hard earth at his feet. The way was clear. The moon was bright and there was not a cloud in the sky. He looked up at the stars as he gathered himself. "Then I'll meet you back here."

"Take your time," Blackjack said and clapped him on the shoulder. "But make sure you get the hell out o' there before them Yankees show up. He's likely to show up with the entire Yankee army."

"I will," he said and untied their horses. He surrendered the reigns to Blackjack and got back up on the wagon. He did not remember the journey. He hardly remembered walking into the brothel and speaking with the madam, and it was nothing but a blur before he was sitting in the corner of the doctors living room, watching him examine Arabella on the dining room table adjacent to him. He watched the doctor for close to an hour examine the wound. Arabella was asleep for most of it, occasionally she would wake and speak to him. Once she started awake, a cry of agony leaving her. Frank had jumped to his feet and started for the room, but she suddenly fell quiet and the doctor raised a bloody hand. He backed away and paced in the hall. He caught sight of three children seated at the top of the stairs, listening anxiously. The doctor's wife took him by the arm, hushed the children away with a violent but silent wave of the arm, and brought him into the kitchen for tea. It was too hot for tea. He didn't like hot tea. But he drank it. The doctor returned, wiping his hands on his apron. Frank looked at the blood and gazed down at his own hands. Her blood was dry beneath his fingernails.

"She was very lucky."

The doctor held up the bullet that had ripped her insides open. Frank held a hand out and accepted it into his palm.

"Any deeper and I would not have been able to get the bullet out."

"War surgeon?" Frank asked, looking from the warped piece of lead to the saber on the wall.

"Was," he answered. Frank nodded.

"She gon' live you think?" he asked. The doctor hesitated.

"She has a fever," he answered. "A slight infection. The bullet was shallow, lodged in the intestine but not piercing it. God had a hand in that, I tell you. But the bodies opened up and it shouldn't be. If the fever passes, she'll live."

"What uh," he cleared his throat. "What are her chances?"

The doctor dipped his hands in a bowl of water his wife carried in from the outside.

"Fair."

"Fair?"

"Fair… better than fair. Good. I don't like to give too much hope. One never knows."

Frank nodded and looked toward the dining room. His chest hurt. His throat.

"I talk to her a moment?"

"She's not conscious."

"Spend a moment?" he asked.

 _To say goodbye_.

He walked into the dining room and pulled up a chair by her head. Her skin was sticky. Pale. Lips as white as her skin. He took one of her hands and looked them over. He traced the lines in her palms. Examined her finger nails, smiling softly at how clean she kept them. He kissed her palm. Watched her sleep for some time and then got to his feet. He leaned over her and place a soft kiss to her forehead. He put another to her nose. Her cheeks. Her eye lids. Finally, her lips.

"I'm sorry, darlin'," he whispered. He stood over her a few moments longer. He reached up and removed his hat from his head. He traced his fingers over of the brim of his hat and looked to her cleanly bandaged belly. He walked into the kitchen with stone legs, hat pressed to his hard.

"Doctor, could you write somethin' down for me?" he asked.

"Of course," he replied and fetched a pencil and paper. He sat down at the table and looked to Frank. Frank thought a moment. He looked toward Arabella, heart pounding. "Sir?"

"No," he murmured. "Nevermind."

"You are sure?"

Frank nodded. The doctor got to his feet and Frank moved to stand before him. He scratched at his lengthening beard and spoke in a quiet voice.

"I'm Friendly Frank Lawson," he said and the doctor's eyes widened. "That in there is Arabella Dupont."

He looked toward her longingly.

"Her brother gon' be here soon. Few hours. Day. Two days. No more 'n that I wouldn't think. You go on and collect that reward if you want. I aint after it." He reached out and dusted off the amazed doctor's eyes. "She lives 'n you get to enjoy it. She dies 'n I'm gon' come back here. I'm come back here 'n I'm gon kill you. I'm gon' kill her," he pointed to the man's terrified wife. "'N I'm gon' kill those little'n's upstairs. Y'Understand?"

The doctor only stared. Frank lifted his eyebrows. He put his hands on his shoulders and swayed him slightly.

"Y'understand?" he asked. The doctor nodded.

"Yeh-yes," he cleared his throat. "Yes."

Frank nodded and dusted off his shoulders again. He looked toward Arabella one last time.

"Bring her upstairs if you can, yeah?" he said. "Somewheres she can be comfortable?"

"We uh… we have a room… a room she can stay in, right in the back here," he said. Frank nodded thoughtfully. He pressed his hat back to his heart and walked to the door with hunched shoulders and a hanging head. He stepped out the front door and walked out into the hot summer hair. And as he walked past the wagon, leaving it behind for whoever might decide to take it, and walked on foot into the desert at night, he knew he was walking away from the biggest mistake of his life.

* * *

A boy was sent into the dining area just past six o'clock. Jonathan sat back in his chair, holding his pipe in his right hand and his rosary in his left. He had sent a telegram home this morning. It was a difficult task, balancing hope with preparation. He did not want any bad news he might need to send home in the coming weeks to come as a shock, lest it kill his poor mother.

He watched the boy running toward him with a tired and lazy gaze. He was beginning to grow tired. So very tired. But no matter how hard he tried he could not sleep. The boy hurried over, removing his tattered little hat from his head as he came to a halt before him, shoes squeaking against the floor.

"Mr. Jonathan Dupont, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, young sir?" he asked. The boy reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a rolled piece of paper. He held it out to Jonathan and Jonathan found a nickel in his pocket. He traded it for the note and the boy ran off with a great thanks. Jonathan slowly opened the piece of paper. He took a hand away momentarily to wipe his tired eyes. He sniffled and rested his elbows on the table.

"Wine?"

Jonathan looked over in tired surprised and raised a hand. The man disappeared and Jonathan turned his attention back to the note. At he read it his heart stopped. He got to his feet, the chair scraping across the floor and the table clattering before him. His coffee cup spilled the contents of his seventh cup all along the table, soaking into the greedy table cloth. Heads turned and conversations slowed. He read the note over and over again. His lips moved rapidly as he tried to make sense of it. Surely there was something he was misunderstanding.

_Arabella shot. alive. San Juan, New Mexico._

He darted from the dining hall and to his rooms, calling like a madman as he went. Thomas Leicht arrived first, followed by Fitzwilliam, and then came in the fiancé dwaddling afterward. Jonathan was too static to even feel annoyance towards him in that moment.

"This note, it claims Arabella lives." He held it up to read again, nodding in confirmation. "San Juan, New Mexico. Just uh… eight hours at best, yet? On horseback?"

"Could make it faster if we switch horses in Cruces," Leicht said, eyes alight with excitement. "Fitzwilliam, get!"

The Indian boy ran off to begin collecting their things.

"Say where she's shot? Who she is with?" he asked. Jonathan shook his head.

"No… anonymous as well."

"Possibly a trap," Thaddeus said, leaning up against the door frame.

"This is the strongest lead we've had since she went missing," Jonathan said angrily. "I am going."

"We should wait till morning. We can travel in light. We can bring more men for protection." Jonathan continued to pack angrily. He said nothing. "You've established the money your family has. Anyone might try and grab _you_ for ransom now."

Jonathan slung his back over his shoulder, his most important possessions, and stopped before Thaddeus in the doorway.

"Do what you want, Thaddeus. Follow tonight Follow tomorrow. Go to California if you like. It does not matter to me."

He shoved into him and moved down the stairs. Leicht and Fitzwilliam followed closely behind and it was a painfully hopeful heart that Jonathan went to secure fresh horses.

* * *

The two Yankees walking up the steps to the doctor's house did not see the southern man standing in the shade beside the house. He had seen them approach, followed long the outskirts of the buildings as they made their inquiries for the doctor's home, and now waited for them to enter the house. He cared little for any danger the two Yankees might bring him. He needed to make sure that she was well taken care of. He needed to make sure that the Yankee brother arrived before he left.

"You will wait here," he heard a Yankee voice come from around the house. Frank listened, tilting his head to the side.

"I will see my fiancée, thank you."

Frank felt his blood boil. There was a pause, the sound of feet scuffling, and then the first Yankee's voice.

"Let me make one thing clear to you, sir. You will _not_ be marrying my sister."

"I do not believe that is your decision to make," the second voice replied haughtily. It was the voice he imagined when he pictured a Yankee. It made his skin crawl and he thought of his poor dead sister, Georgia… Arabella.

"Indeed, it is not," the brother agreed. "It is hers. And when she is made aware of your indifference, I've no doubt she will make the proper decision. Now please, excuse me while I see to my sister."

There was the sound of footsteps, a door opening and closing, and then the sound of a man kicking the bench out front. Frank smiled to himself as he walked along the little alley between the doctor's home and the butcher shop. He slipped around the back of the building and sat down in the spot he had occupied the last day and a half. It was just beneath her window. There was no back door to the house. When the Mrs. came to change linen or the children ran out to play, he had ample opportunity to slip behind the fence the butcher had erected to hide his pig troughs. He just needed to make sure she would be safe before he left.

The door inside creaked open.

"Bella."

The sound was reverence. There was relief. Joy. Pain. Frank closed his eyes.

"Bella," he whispered, thinking back to a time he had her in his arms.

"She is asleep. Laudanum. I wanted to keep her asleep to speed up the healing process. Help with the pain. She'll be up soon," the doctor said. "A few hours."

There was some silence. Frank could only speculate what was happening.

"Oh, Bella," he said again. There was the sound of a kiss to skin. Her forehead, her hands perhaps. "Oh thank you, Mary."

"A word with you, sir?" the brother finally asked. "About the circumstances in which my sister was brought you?"

"Of… of course, sir. This way."

Frank rested his head back against the window. He closed his eyes and fought the urge to look in on her. He couldn't. He wasn't here. He'd said his goodbyes. And now that Jonathan Dupont had returned he knew that all he needed to do was get up from the dirt beneath him, acquire his horse, and go on his way. He could wait a little longer. Just a little longer.

* * *

Two days later, in sweltering heat and with a terrible headache, Arabella awoke. She moaned in pain, a sharp pain radiating through her stomach, but she could not think of what she might have done. Surely she had been on a horse long enough now that she would not feel such pain? It might have been from the river. Frank had thrown her around to roughly. She smiled softly and stretched but she could not lift her arms. The pain in her stomach exploded again. She opened her eyes but found her lids heavy. She frowned and whimpered.

"Anderson," she whispered and reached to her side. Her arm fell off the bed so she reached to her left. The pain seemed to be building and once against she found her arm meeting with air. "Anderson," she said again, more loudly this time.

"Arabella."

Her brow crinkled. She did not know that voice.

"Bella. Bella," the voice said gently above her. She frowned more deeply and she squinted. Her vision was blurry.

"Where's… Anderson?"

"Shh, don't speak. Here, drink this."

She knew that voice. She screwed her eyes shut and then opened them again. It only partially helped with her vision. Her head hurt too badly. Liquid was put to her tongue. Foul and bitter. She tried to spit it out but some escaped down her throat. Water was put to her lips next. She drank that down greedily. But the pain continued and she leaned back. A gentle hand pushed back her hair. Her skin felt sticky. Her hair was wet. She felt awful.

"That will help with the pain," he said.

"Matthew?" she asked. There was a soft chuckle.

"No… your favorite big brother," the voice responded. She felt a kiss to her forehead.

"Jon…Jonathan?"

"Here I am, Bella," he smiled. He came in and out of focus and the small vile was put back to her lips. Just a bit more but her head felt heavy. There was warmth. The pain disappeared. She was suddenly very happy. But as she fell into unconsciousness, she could not help but wonder where Anderson was.

* * *

She awoke again two days later. Her head still hurt, her throat was dry and she was hungry. Her stomach hurt. She remembered nothing of her bouts of consciousness. She remembered dreaming of Jonathan and Thaddeus. She dreamed of them arguing. A door slamming shut and then silence. She dreamed of her bother saying the rosary by her bed. He telegrammed home. The entire church would be saying a prayer for her at next Sunday's Mass.

"Anderson?" she whispered. She reached to her right and left. He was not there. She kicked off her blankets slowly. Every movement hurt. She looked around the little room she was in. It was small. There was her little bed and two chairs to her right and left. A bible rested open on one. She looked over to the window, a warm breeze wafting in through the open square in the wall. She stared a long time. She grimaced as she got to her feet. She kept her hand pressed to her screaming belly as she padded across the hard wood floor.

She reached out a hand and closed her fingers around the brim of the hat. She squeezed the top. Her stomach sank to her toes. She looked down at the nightgown she wore. It was not her own. It was too big. She touched her throbbing stomach and then held the hat over. She walked to the door. It was an agonizing journey. Slowly she turned the handle and nudged it open.

"Anderson?" she called. She pressed her lips together. She squeezed the brim of the hat. She held it to herself tightly. She waited for John or Blackjack to come around the corner and tell her he was dead. She felt sick. But Blackjack did not come around the corner. Neither did John.

"Jonathan?" she whispered in shock. Her fingers relaxed in shock, almost letting the hat fall to the floor. She was struck with happiness. Another man stepped up behind her brother. Her stun grew even greater. She stared at him. Disbelieving. She hardly recognized him. "Thad… Thaddeus?"

He gave a tiny, nervous smile.

Her fingers curled around the hat, pulling it more tightly to her wounded belly.


	20. Chapter 20

Arabella grimaced as she sat up in bed. Two days had passed since she was awake and though she was healing, the pain was still tremendous. She had yet to speak to her brother and Thaddeus about the event. She was not strong enough to relive such trauma, Jonathan had snapped angrily when a man named Licht asked about the outlaw that had seized her. She was more than grateful to Jonathan for protecting her as he did. She did not think she could bare to answer all the questions that needed to be answered.

 _Frank is coming,_ she thought as she gazed out the window. _He'll wait until I am strong enough and then we'll go to the ocean. We'll see the lakes in Minnesota._

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Bella?"

A small smiled came to her lips and she leaned back on the pillows. She called for her brother to enter and he smiled sheepishly as he entered the room.

"A short visit?"

"I hope not," she smiled. He took her meaning for what it was and came to sit by the chair beside her.

"You look better," he mused. "Strong."

"I feel better," she answered. "Though the pain is sharp. Throbbing."

"It will pass," he encouraged. She gave a small smile and looked back out the window. When she looked back to him his face was grim and his eyes were on the hat still clutched tightly in her hands. She had not surrendered it and once, when she awoke to the doctor checking on her bandages, she had mistaken his attempt to move the hat to the side as an attempt to take it from her. Once of his eyes was now black and purple. "Abby, will you speak to me true?"

"Of course," she whispered.

"Did you leave with him?" he asked. "Willingly?"

She reflected a moment and shook her head.

"No, I did not. He had seen me on the train… the train attack I had been a part of… and then he followed us to Christopher's. He tried to take me there but could not. Then… when he almost killed that man…"

Jonathan was nodding. She knew he had heard all this from Christopher already.

"There is much we must discuss," he said gently. "But when you are healthy."

She nodded. She did not wish to discuss it now any more than he did. He stood and touched his fingers to her chin, smiling down at her.

"Thaddeus wishes to see you," he murmured, a darkness in his voice. Her smiled faltered. He sat down on the ledge of the bed in a flash pouncing on the momentary falter. "Arabella, you say the word, and we'll be on a train east." She stared into his eyes. "You do _not_ need to marry him."

She gave a little smile.

"I would like to speak to him," she said. He nodded slowly.

"Before any decisions are made, when you are healthy enough for travel, you and I need to discuss your fiancé."

"He put up a reward of five hundred dollars," she whispered as he began to get to his feet. He paused, half bent, and then lowered himself back down to his chair. "One night, Anderson hustled some money out of an entire crowed," she smiled fondly, sadly, "he made over five hundred dollars." She was almost proud. " _Five hundred,_ Jonathan." He stared at her, eyes sad, questioning, but they lacked judgement. "He knew of the reward, of course. Yours," she looked at the door. "And his."

She looked down at the hat, trailing her fingers along the brim. She wanted to lift it to her nose and smell but fought the urge.

"He counted out five hundred dollars and he lit it on fire. Burned it right in front of me. It sad to know that your value is worth more to a criminal than it is to a man that professes to love you," she said sadly. She felt tears in her eyes. He leaned forward and placed both hands on the side of her face.

"Your value has no dollar amount," he told her. She smiled and a tear dribbled down her cheek. He gently wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. "Arabella… I have men at the ready to begin the pursuit of this outlaw, to see him brought in and hanged…" his eyes moved to the hat. "I am not so sure if that is what you want."

Her face crumpled and she tightened her hands to fists around the hat, holding it tightly to her.

"It is complicated, Jonathan," she whispered. "I… I did not… want this to happen, I swear to you, my virtue… I tried…"

"Shh, shh," he said. "Darling sister," he said and kissed her forehead.

"Everyone back home knows," she said. "I will be… ostracized and… whispered about. Jonathan I cannot go back there. Ever."

"They'll not dare say a word," he began thunderously. She calmed him with a hand to his lips.

"If he still wants me," she said. "I am going to marry him."

"Arabella," he said, his voice awash with agony. A desperate plea. "He does not deserve you. He… the indifference –"

He broke off as he looked at her face, torn between hurting her further and saving her from a man inferior to her and saving the painful truth that the man that should love her most cared so very little for her. He swallowed and looked down, shaking his head.

"We will find you a man in New England. New York. There are men out there that would –"

" –Take a ruined woman for a small fortune?" she asked. "Thaddeus wanted me before this at least… at least I know his only reason is not money. That his opinion of me…"

She trailed off. She wasn't sure what to say or how to say it.

"I am tired."

"I will leave you," he whispered with hunched shoulders. "When would you like to speak to him?"

"After a small nap?" she asked. "And then lunch?"

He smiled softly. He reached forward and placed his rosary into her hand, closing her fingers around it.

"I will come to check on you," he said softly. "Pray for strength. Physical and emotional. We are never too strong to pray for strength."

She nodded and held his rosary close.

"I love you, Jonathan."

"Oh dearest sister," he replied. He got to his feet and patted her cheek. "Words cannot express."

He walked slowly to the door.

"Jonathan?" she asked. He paused with his hand on the door handle and turned to look at her. "Leave him be."

He stared at her a long while. He looked to the hat in her hands and then his eyes moved to the ground. He nodded slowly. He forced a smile and exited the room, closing the door softly behind him. She rolled over onto her side, despite the pain. She grimaced and stared out the window toward the blue sky. The linen on the line blew softly in the light breeze. She clutched the hat tightly to her chest and screwed her eyes shut.

 _He'll be coming,_ she told herself. _He'll be coming for me soon. He promised._

* * *

Thaddeus sat at the table with sweaty hands, staring at the unlit cigar in his hand. He twirled it around his fingers. The air in the room was stuffy. It was hot. The breeze outside could not get into the kitchen, no matter all the windows in the house being open. He heard the door close and looked up anxiously. Jonathan stepped into the room, paused when he spotted Thaddeus at the table, and then moved to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a small glass of brandy and plopped down in his chair. He rubbed his eyes, elbows on the table, and called for Mr. Leicht.

"Sir?" the man asked, stepping into the room.

"I will pay the rest of your bill when we get back to Sante Fe and I can access a proper bank. Until that time comes, I will no longer be in need of your services. If you would simply send word that the bounty is be called off, I will pay an additional twenty dollars."

"My men are ready to pursue," Leicht said.

"Call them off," Jonathan replied and his hands dropped to the table. One grabbed the glass of brandy and he took a large swig. "Please."

"Call them off?" Thaddeus asked in disgust. "Call them off?"

Jonathan eyes snapped upward with murderous hatred.

"Now you grow passionate?" he scoffed. "When she's alive and well in a sick bed?"

"Now I know she lives," Thaddeus snapped. "Now is not the time to save on expense –"

"Save on expense!" Jonathan boomed. His fist collided with the table and he rose to his feet. He loomed over the table, fists against the wood. "Don't you dare speak to me on expense." His voice dropped but it was no less frightening. "Let me make one thing clear to you. I would sooner see you hang than the man that did this to her."

"That is a vile thing to say," Thaddeus replied. Jonathan straightened. He reached into his pocket and removed his pocket watch. He examined it thoughtfully and calmed himself.

"You are here, sir, because I respect my sister and her right to her own decisions. Do not think for one moment that there is an ounce of respect for you in my being." He put his watch back into his pocket and looked to him. "Arabella will see you after lunch, when she is better rested."

He walked from the room and slammed the front door behind him. Thaddeus looked out the window see him walk down the street, Leicht jogging behind him to catch up. Thaddeus leaned back in his chair and examined the cigar. He rose from his chair and walked slowly to the stairs. He paused in the hallway, staring down the hall to the door of Arabella's room. A pain look crossed his face, a gnawing in his gut, and he lowered his head. He let out a sigh and continued on up the stairs.

* * *

The door opened slowly, the timid face of Thaddeus peaking in through the opening. She forced a smile, tried to rile up the love she had felt when she got on the train in New York. Instead, she felt numb, she felt sadness, and she felt as though it was the face of a stranger looking in at her.

"Are you well rested?" he asked softly.

"Enough," she smiled. He entered the room and shut the door carefully behind him. He was always so calm. So relaxed. His demeanor as sometimes mistaken for arrogance. Sometimes complete indifference. She knew he was not a cruel or malicious man. Simply detached. He struggled to find passion in anything. So unlike Mathew was, so unlike Jonathan now… and so very, very different from the dangerous, violent passion that lived within the wild and untamed heart of Frank Lawson.

Thaddeus sat down at her bedside with a shy smile. He glanced at the hat resting at her hip and then looked back to her. His chocolate eyes were wide and gentle, searching and tender. He chuckled softly, nervously, and she looked down with an uncomfortable smile. He reached forward and took her hand in his. He gently stroked her knuckles, his hands soft and smooth.

"I have missed you," he said softly. "I was… so very frightened."

"I thought of you often," she said. "Since we've parted."

There was more silence. She bit her lip nervously. There was pain in her stomach. She fought the urge to shift to find a more comfortable position.

"I um…" he began. "Whatever your brother might have said –"

"Jonathan knows my feelings," she cut him off. He looked up in surprise. "If you'll still have me…"

" _Of course,"_ he said reverently. It brought a real smile to her lips. "You're not to be blamed for what was forced upon you."

Her smiled faltered. He reached into his pocket, a small smile on his lips.

"I never lost hope," he told her. He fumbled with the box and popped it open. "I would have sent it to you, but I wanted to give it to you in person. I… I had hoped the circumstances may be different but…"

He removed the ring from the box and took her hand. Gently he slid it up her finger.

"It is, uh… It is a true diamond. From the mines in South Africa I am told," he said. "It uh… if you do not like it –"

"I love it," she whispered. She smiled at him. She was not so sure why her heart hurt so badly. He smiled shyly. He looked to the hat and reached for it.

"Let me remove this for you –"

"No," she rushed out, putting her hand to the hat. He looked at her in surprise. "I… cannot explain it but, I would like to keep it a bit longer."

"It is his?" he asked. She looked down at it. She nodded slowly.

"I do not pretend to know what you are feeling," he said quietly. "Do what you must. It truly pains me to know you… were used in such a way that… you need suffer so terribly."

She nodded slowly. She closed her eyes. She did not remember the night he first took her to bed, frightened of the violence that become her. She did not remember the night she had to walk through the wilderness. She did not remember watching him viciously slide his knife into a man's belly or shooting a man as he lay on his back in a saloon. She only remembered laying her head against his chest as he held her in the cool water beneath the hot New Mexican sun. She remembered lying in bed with him, his hands gently running through her hair as she trailed her fingers along the scars that peppered his chest. She fought the urge to reach for the hat.

"I am tired," she whispered. "I would like to rest."

"Of course, of course," he replied and got to his feet. "Forgive me."

He looked to her a moment and then bent down, placing a soft kiss to her cheek. His lips were gently. His face smooth. He smelled like fresh soap.

"Rest, my love," he smiled. He touched her cheek and then walked slowly from the room. She looked at the ring on her hand. She watched it twinkle brightly. She settled down on her back, the pain growing in her stomach. Before falling to sleep she put the hat back on her head. It fell down over her forehead. The brim covered her face, tiling down to touch his nose. She smelled whiskey, dirt, smoke, and sweat. She lifted up the hat and rested it over her face. With the hat over her head, her tears didn't feel all that real.

* * *

Two weeks passed before she was ready to travel. She was quite positive that was when he would make his move. She spoke little to Thaddeus in her two weeks at the doctor's home. She mostly slept. She spoke and prayed with her brother. She went to church twice. It was the only way Jonathan would have allowed her to travel so soon. She had to prove to him that she was strong enough to be up on her feet for a significant amount of time. It gave her an excuse to refuse the acceptance of Thaddeus' arm. _I need to prove to my overbearing brother that I can stand my own,_ she teased gently as they set off. Jonathan shot her a look but she giggled softly. She did not want Anderson to see her on another man's arm. She knew how angry it would make him. But as she walked on her accord to the church, slowly, but independently, she looked around the small town, wondering where he might be. She couldn't feel his eyes. She frowned into the cool breeze that came through the air as she waited outside the church.

Now they traveled to Sante Fe and then to Christopher's ranch for a short time. Jonathan was not ready to part with his sister and Arabella was not yet ready to go to California. She could have traveled if she wished to. She simply was not ready. She grimaced as they got into the carriage. She knew full well this was when Anderson would make his move to steal her back. She knew that he would not hurt Jonathan. He would not hurt her like that. But she was not so sure about Thaddeus. She practiced what words she would use to spare her momentary fiancé. She practiced those words for hours. By the time they arrived at Sante Fe, she had them perfected.

She stepped from the carriage and her lips parted, her brow furrowed. She looked around the outside of the hotel, down the roads of bustling people. Wagons, carts, coaches, butchers and tailors, farmers, travelers, soldiers and miners.

"Arabella?" Jonathan asked her, coming to stand behind her. He put a gently hand on her lower back. She looked up and forced a smile.

"I just thought…" she trailed off. Her feelings could not quite be explained. She looked for her bag. The one his hat was in. "Please sir," she said to the attendant that grabbed the bag. "Be very careful with that."

"Do you wish to eat in your room?" Thaddeus asked as he stepped up onto the covered porch.

"No, thank you," she answered. She looked around the crowed. "I will eat in the dining room."

She was quiet as they ate. Jonathan spoke about his new business dealings in New York, how he planned on still practicing the law despite the necessity to take over the family estate. She was pleased that he did most of the talking. She was genuinely pleased to learn about his dealings but she also did not feel the need to make conversation. She did not want to hear Thaddeus' voice more than she had to. She jabbed at her food lazily. She asked her brother if she could have some whiskey. He frowned, said something about not realizing she liked the taste, and ordered her a small glass. She took a sip and broke down into tears. She tried to apologize, but it only threated to make her cry harder and so she excused herself. Jonathan nudged Thaddeus out of the way and lead her up the stairs himself.

"Arabella," he asked softly as he brought her inside and sat her down on the bed. He knelt down before her. "What can I do for you?"

She shook her head.

"My life is ruined," she told him. Tears continued to fall down her cheeks. She shook her head. "He ruined my life."

"There is so much to live for, Bella," he comforted. He cupped her face. "Please, the pain will pass."

"I cannot go East. I do not want to go West."

"I will stay with you here as long as you need," he told her. He took her hands. "I have people I trust back home seeing to my interests. I will not leave your side until you order it of me and still will I linger."

She smiled at him through her blurry vision and sniffled hard.

"I love you, big brother," she told him. He got up and sat beside her on the bed, hugging her close but remained gently. She began to cry. When she woke up the next morning, he was still there with her, arms wrapped tightly around her.

* * *

 _He's not coming,_ she thought as she stared out into the darkness. It was a painful realization. One that hit her like a ton of bricks. They spent a week at Sante Fe and had been at Christopher's for five days. Thaddeus was growing anxious. He mentioned on multiple occasions he needed to be seeing to his interests in California soon. Jonathan cagily informed him to send a wire. Most nights, when everyone was asleep, she would creep down stairs and slip outside. She'd walk along the outside of the main farm buildings. She relished in the quiet. Let the cool night air of the increasingly cooling weather wash over her. And she would wait for him to come out of the darkness to bring her back with him. The first night did so, she was found the next morning, sleeping on the dew covered grass, her back resting against the door of the barn.

The next three nights she slipped back inside before the sun rose. Each night that past she would walk further from the home. The fifth night she stood in the middle of the grazing field, arms crossed before her, holding her shawl to her tightly. She stared out into the field, the moon beautiful, the stares shining, not a single cloud in the sky. There was total silence. Only the sound of the wind. It was a soft breeze.

_He's not coming._

She did not realize it until that moment how badly she wanted him to. She did not cry. It hurt too badly to cry. _Never let me go_ , she thought bitterly. _Never let me go._

She sat down on the steps to the house and fought off a shiver. She remained there until morning this time. She didn't have the strength to move. Thaddeus discovered her this time. He came from the door, a breath leaving him, and his coat was suddenly draped over her shoulders.

"Not again, Arabella," he said softly. He wrapped his arms around her and attempted to warm her. "You will catch your death."

She turned her head to look up at him, a soft smile on her lips, but terrible sadness in her eyes.

"Do _you_ want me, Thaddeus?" she asked. He frowned.

"Of course, I do," he said.

"No matter what?" she asked.

"Till the day I die," he vowed softly. She tilted her face upward and he lowered his lips. The kiss was soft and gentle, coaxing and loving. She leaned back and into looked into his handsome chocolate eyes. And she felt absolutely nothing.

They would be leaving in two days. They would travel to Sante Fe, get married in a Catholic place of worship there, and then Jonathan would head East. Arabella knew Jonathan wanted to talk her into coming home with him, but she also knew he did not want to hurt her. This was her only chance at the semblance of happiness. Jonathan seemed to understand that without her having to say it. _Not all men are like you,_ she had told him during a moment alone with him. _Almost none are so good._

She left for a walk to calm her nerves. It would prove to be the most trying time of her life. Even her imprisonment was not so hard. The pain, the discontent, the fear of saying goodbye to her brother. It was all too much to feel at any one time. She skirted around the barn, visited the pigs, pet a few horses, and smiled as the children asked her to go swimming with them. She shook her head and told them she was quiet. They hurried onward, giving her no more trouble.

"Oh, Mother Mary help me," she whispered, clutching at her brother's rosary. "Make the pain go away."

"Soon enough, certainly."

She whirled around, eyes wide. Leaning up against the other side of the low fence keeping in the pigs was a man with a blue coat and a forager cap on his head, a cold smile on his lips and a cruel look of amusement in his eyes.

"I thought to myself, when I saw you dropped off at that doctors, do I kill her now, or should I wait and thought, well, she won't know, and I need her to know. And Frank, that bastard. I want him to watch, and he split real fast didn't he. I mean, can't a fuck a woman with a bullet in her belly. What use were you anymore, right?"

He hopped over the fence and she took a step back.

"Try and run," he said. He nudged his chin. She turned around to find another man about twenty feet behind her. Another to her left. To her right was the barn. "I had thought that Frank would care if you died. I was going to do terrible… terrible things to you. Make him watch of course." He spit, saliva working up as he spoke with his toothless grin. "I guess he saved you from that at least."

His words cut to her core.

"Now I'm just going to kill you," he smiled. Her mouth went dry as he reached for his gun at his hip. Regardless of the pain she was feeling, she did not want to die. "Anything you want to say first? Last words? And don't beg. It won't work. Save your dignity."

"I had nothing to do with the death of your brother," she told him simply.

"Wasn't for you, he wouldn't be dead," he replied, a flash of insanity in his eyes. "You sure that's all you want to say?"

"Please –"

"Bella!" Jonathan called, hurrying out the front steps and toward her. "Bella?"

Archie turned and raised the run toward him. He slowed and raised his hands, but put himself in front of her.

"What is your purpose here, sir?" he asked.

"Fiancé?" he asked, a smile on his lips.

"Brother," he replied. There was silence. A door opened and Thaddeus stepped out onto the porch. He watched with confused panic on his lips. Arabella glanced toward him, willing him to get a gun, to do something.

"Brother?" Archie asked and her stomach dropped. She moved to Jonathan and grabbed his arm. She pulled him back but he remained firm, nudging her behind him.

"Jonathan, Jonathan," she said, tugging at him, trying to get him away in a panic.

"You know what, Miss Dupont," Archie smiled. "I changed my mind."

"No!" she screeched and he pulled the trigger.

The bullet ripped into Jonathan and he went sprawling backward. His feet kicked at the dirt as he stumbled. Another squeeze of the trigger and he was falling back into Arabella. Theyhit the ground with a thud, her brother's white shirt already stained red. Two large circles widening quickly.

"Thaddeus!" she screeched. "Christopher!"

Archie walked backwards away from her, lifting his cap into the air.

"A fine day to you, Miss Dupont! I'd say we're square," he called and then went running to his horse as the front door was thrown open. Christopher was in the fields working. It was Cornelius that came rushing from the house with a rifle. He shoved Thaddeus, frozen in place, out of the way. He ran down the little clearing between the home and the barn, lifting up the rife and shooting after the fleeing murderer. Arabella could not see if he was struck, but he disappeared into the open.

She clutched at his shirt in a panic. His face was pale. His lips white. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish.

"Jonathan!" she screeched. Her hands tried to stop the bleeding, but it gushed from the holes in his body. The blood that did not ooze from his flesh, began to fill up his lungs. He looked at her, eyes wide and panicked. Handsome, kind, loving Jonathan. "Jonathan," she wept. "No," she cried. "Please no."

She pushed his hair from his face. His skin was cold and clammy. His breathing was now shallow and labored. He made a gurgling sound. He reached up, touching her lips. His arm dropped. The gurgling stopped. His chest no long rose and fell. She stared at him, eyes wide. She was left stunned. She stared at him. His eyes stared blankly up to the sky. His mouth hung open. He lay there dead.

"Jonathan," she whispered. She touched his lips. They were cold.

"Arabella."

She heard Thad's voice but did not turn. She looked out after Archie. A few long moments passed.

"Will you do nothing?" she asked. Her voice was disturbingly calm. She heard buzzing in her ears but she did not know if it was really there or not.

"What am I to do?" he asked softly. She looked down at her brother's face. She touched his cheek. Jonathan would have been on a horse already. He would be on his way to town to form a posse. Anderson would be pursuing them himself. He could have made sure it never happened.

 _You should have come for me,_ she thought, squinting up into the sun. _If you cared this wouldn't have happened._

But she was never one to put blame on one for another's actions. Some might blame Anderson for his actions, being the force that dropped the first domino, but she did not think along those lines. She never did. Archie Roper killed her brother. Archie Roper must pay for it.

"Pursue justice?" she asked. There was silence. Cornelius knelt down in front of her. He put his hand on Jonathan's chest, his other hand over his heart, and he bowed his head and prayed for his soul. Arabella still could find no more tears. It did not seem real, holding her dead brother in her arms. It was just so fast. Her brain had not yet processed the information.

"Arabella," he said very gently. She closed her eyes and he took a step closer, still behind her. "It would be… you are distraught right now. Quite emotional. It… it would best if we simply… cut our losses and –"

"Cut our losses," she said softly. A smile actually came to her lips. She looked down at Jonathan. She tried to close his eyes but they remained partially open. She sniffled as she pressed harder on his eye lids. She could not keep them closed.

"Arabella, try and understand. The money it would take… they are gone. It would be a waste of resources. Your brother…" his voice was very gentle. "He is not coming back."

"I will do it myself," she whispered.

"Arabella," he said. She said nothing and shifted, holding her brother to her. She knew it… but she could not feel it yet. She held him close. It was the strangest feeling. She shook her head. "Arabella, I am going home."

She looked up at the sun.

"Whether or not you come with me is your decision," he said.

Her smile widened and she laughed. Lucille was on the front porch now, stumbling down the steps with a hand to her mouth.

"I _want_ you to, Arabella. I _want_ you with me but… I cannot continue this running around the west for lost causes."

"I was a lost cause," she reminded him.

"That is different," he said.

"Go then, Thaddeus," she said. "I will see that my brother returns home."

"I, Arabella, you are being unreasonable, of course I will stay for these arrangements to be made –"

"No need," she replied. How could he do this to her right now? How could he even think these words should be spoken aloud in this moment. "Please. Leave me be."

"Arabella –"

"Go away!" she screeched, voice cracking.

"I… I did not mean it… the way it sounded."

"Go!" she screamed again. She heard his feet begin their retreat.

"Cornelius…" Lucille whispered. He looked up from his prayers. "Please… go get Christopher."

He nodded. Arabella rocked back and forth softly. She looked down at Jonathan and began to sing a childhood lullaby.

* * *

That night they arrived back in Sante Fe. Christopher, Arabella, Cornelius and Thaddeus. Arabella had Anderson's hat clutched in her hands as she rode in the back of the wagon. Cornelius had put together a coffin for him. They lined it with the best blanket before putting him inside of it. Arabella stared at the nails that were hammered into the wood as they rocked along through the night. She'd made her decision already. There was no doubt in her mind.

When they arrived she went with Christopher to secure passage for his body. She allowed Christopher to buy her a ticket. She did not make a single protest. Thaddeus followed behind silently. He purchased a ticket on the same train himself. Neither said a word to each other. In the dining room at the hotel she had been at with her brother just a week previously. She rose abruptly, a pain in her abdomen, and excused herself.

"I am going to bed."

"Let me escort you," Thaddeus tried to say, rising with her.

"I can walk on my own, thank you," she replied coolly. Slowly, he lowered himself back into his chair. She sat on the bed in her room, staring into space. The train carrying her brother would depart at nine o'clock tomorrow. Thaddeus wanted to be on the platform by eight thirty to board. She listened carefully to ever toll of the bell. She counted every time the clock would tell her the hour, counting down each one in her head. When only a single bell chimed, she rose to her feet. It would give her the time to get away.

She crept from her room. Walked slowly down the hall. His hat was still in her hands. She left the hotel and walked down the street to the rougher edge of town. She heard noise, music, laughter. She walked into a tavern but no one paid her any mind. She scanned the room, looking for a man that looked both rough but trustworthy. She found a man in a ragged confederate coat. An old captain from the look of it. She walked toward him. He and his friends looked up at her in surprise, waiting for her to speak.

"Can you get me to Tularosa?" she asked.

"Tularosa?" he asked, the drawl of a well to do Virginian lilting his voice. "Bit of a ways."

She removed the diamond ring from her hand and it put it on the table before him. He looked down at it a moment. Picking it up he examined it closely.

"Just droppin' you off?" he asked. "Tularosa isn't the safest of places. I don't much want to stay. Can't imagine why a Yankee lady wants to go to a confederate haven."

"I just need to get there safely," she answered. "You need not stay with me once I am there."

He nodded.

"An escort then," he said, standing. "Not a body guard you're after."

She nodded and he placed the ring in his pocket.

"Let's go. You can ride?"

"I can ride my own horse," she said. He told his friends he'd see them tomorrow night. She cared little for the danger she was putting herself him. She only considered the risk of leaving with this man briefly.

As she left the saloon with the strange man, she lifted her arm and put Anderson's hat on her head. If Thaddeus would not do what needed to be done, she would go to someone who would.


	21. 21

Despite the recklessness of her actions, the ex-rebel she had paid to bring her to Tularosa turned out to be everything a southern gentleman should be. He was kind and courteous, even when they needed to camp overnight, he treated her exactly as one would expect a gentleman to treat a lady. He fetched them water, he cooked them food, he created a comfortable place for her to sleep, and other than the normal anxiety she began to feel, realizing that she had sent herself back out into the desert again with a man she did not know, she felt at ease with him.

Once, as they first camped that night, she had stared at him from across the flames of their fire, waiting for him to come over and force himself on her. She wished Frank was there. She longed to feel his arms around her and enjoy the protection he offered. She pushed that to the back of her mind. _Never let you go_. _Liar._ The southerner asked her if she was alright, genuine concern in her eyes.

"You look sad, darling," he said. She looked up at him and then looked into the fire, shaking her head. She learned he had been a captain in the rebel army. The army of Northern Virginia. Captain William Morsey. He lost everything at the end of the war and so he turned tail and came out west.

"West is a place for lost souls," he mused sadly. "What's a pretty thing like you doing out here?"

"I do not know," she whispered.

"Guess you're lost too then," he said. "Get some sleep. We'll be at Tularosa tomorrow. Hopefully, you'll find what you're looking for."

They took their time getting to Tularosa. Captain Morsey had no desire to rush a woman through the desert. They chatted through most of the day. It was just past five when they arrived at Tularosa. She lead their horses to the front of the saloon and hesitated. She stated up at the sign, eyes slightly wide, top lip caught between her teeth.

"Come on then," Captain Morsey said, jumping down from his horse.

"You've fulfilled your obligation, Captain," she said as he tied his horse to the hitching point. He moved over to her and held out a hand. He helped her off the horse. She grimaced as her feet hit the ground. Her hand went to her abdomen and she braced herself for a few moments. When she looked back Captain Morsey was looking her over with a frown. "Something tells me there's a lot more to you than meets the eye, isn't there?"

He tied up the horse and then motioned toward the saloon.

"I'm not leaving you here alone though, Miss," he said. "So let's get a move on."

She thanked him and walked up toward the doors. The saloon doors swung open and closed behind them. She felt as though she would ill, scanning the crowed for a handsome, sunbaked face and icy blue eyes. Her heart fluttered in her throat and her mouth went dry. She could not think of what she might possibly say to him when she saw him.

"Um, excuse me?" she reached out and touched a passing man on the arm. He pushed on past her with a curse. Arabella lowered her hand and surveyed the room. Her mind began to race. She never really considered what she would do if he wasn't here. She began to panic, her heart pounding, and she wanted to cry. Her jaw trembled but she beat the feeling down. She was on her own now. She would find Frank somehow.

"Anderson," she whispered.

"Can I help you, Miss? Think you're in the wrong place," the barkeep said. She turned to look at him and stepped up to the bar. Captain Morsey stood behind her, scanning the room critically. She would have to thank him for staying before they parted way.

"I am looking for Friendly Frank Lawson," she said. A few at the bar broke off their conversation and turned their heads toward her. The barkeep frowned and leaned forward on his arm. Captain Morsey leaned in toward her.

"You didn't tell me we were chasing after a criminal," he said. She turned to look at him.

"It is important, I promise," she said but he looked angry suddenly. "I apologize. As I said, you have fulfilled your obligation to me. You are free to go with my thanks."

He pushed away from the bar but lingered behind her, examining the place closely. He crossed his arms, letting his coat shift to reveal the revolver on his hip.

"Is he here?" she asked the barkeep.

"Who's looking?" he grunted.

"Is he here?" she snapped. He leaned in closely.

"Who's. Looking. Bitch."

Her skin heated and indignation swelled up within her. She was a lady. She was the daughter of one of the richest men in Rhode Island. She was tired of being treated with such crassness and indifference. Angry tears came to her eyes but she refused to let them fall. She would not show such weakness.

"Jim."

She turned around to find a man she did not know looking her over. He looked back at her and jerked his head.

"He's over there."

On numb legs she walked through the raucous crowed, nudging past women of ill-repute and dodging the leers and lecherous gropes of men with too much drink in their blood. She paused as she arrived at the back of the room. There was a door, closed, and she turned around to look at the stranger. He gave a nod and then took a drink from the barkeep.

"Let me," Captain Morsey said. He began to move passed her but she grabbed his arm. He paused and she went to the door. She took a deep breath before putting her hand on the handle. It did almost nothing to calm her. She forced her fear to the deepest place within her and opened the door, stepping through with confidence and authority she did not feel. Within she trembled, ready to vomit and flee, but without, she was Miss Arabella Dupont, heiress, lady, and proud Yankee.

Inside were a group of men seated around a table, playing cards, smoking cigars and pipes, pretty, but dirty women sitting on their laps, dressed in nearly nothing. She recognized Blackjack immediately. It was difficult to miss a face with such a scar. Then she found John Canton. She recognized the gentleman Sam, the same whore as before sitting on his lip, nibbling at his ear.

And then she found Frank. At the end of the table, staring at her with a perfectly blank look on his face. In his lap was the woman she somewhat recognized as Susanna, stroking his hair affectionately, her hands running over his neck and chest like he belonged to her. Her eyes were cold as they found her, dark and angry. The sight took a short moment to sink in. The pain lasted only a brief second. She was tired of the pain. Instead, she allowed herself to be flooded with disgust and hatred. Because of this man her life was ruined, her brother was dead. He'd promised forever and dropped her off and turned his back on her when he got bored. To think she thought herself special.

His hand slipped from Susanna's thigh. He leaned back in his chair, pulling her hands from his hair. Susanna looked back to him, her dark eyes hard. Her hands moved back to his hair and he grabbed her wrist, slowly lowering it away from him and to the table. He continued to stare at her, his lips parted. The air was hot. Smoke itched at her lungs and nose. It was silent. She felt Captain Morsey come to stand behind her. Finally, Frank's lips curved upward into a smile and he chuckled. The coolness in it, the indifference had her eyes burning. It might have been the smoke.

"Comin'ta have me arrested?"

"Captain," she said softly, "Could you wait just outside for me? I will… if I need you to bring me home again, I will pay you well."

"I'll be at the bar," he said. He looked at her, back to the room, and then stepped away. Arabella turned back, her skin flushed red.

"Mr. Lawson," she said, her voice far icier than she could have hoped. He lifted his eyebrows. "May I have a word with you?"

He cleared his throat and looked to his cards. His hand went back to Susanna's inner thighs. She watched his fingers gently stroke the skin. Her throat constricted

"In the middle of a game, darlin'," he said. "But you can wait if you want."

"Mr. Lawson," she began again. He looked up sharply.

"Outside."

She stared at him. The pain returned again. Disbelief that he could treat her this way. She remembered her brother lying in the dirt, the life draining out of his chest.

"Archibald Roper paid me a visit." He looked up at that. "My brother's body should arrive in New York within the week." She stared at him and then lifted his hat. She tossed it at him. He let it collide with his nose and fall onto the table, landing in his little pile of bills before him. "Enjoy your card game."

She turned, hoping to leave with grace and dignity, but she moved too quickly and a tremor of pain rocked through her. A whimper broke past her lips and her hand went to her abdomen. She closed her eyes to collect herself, heard Susanna whisper something and laugh, and quickly slipped from the room. She was lowering herself down slowly at an empty table when the door flung open and Frank stepped out. He surveyed the room. His blue eyes landed on hers and she fought the urge to weep. She dug her fingers into her stomach, pain radiating beneath her fingertips. She felt the pain in her heart subside. His eyes found her fingers. She looked down.

"Miss Dupont," he said when he stopped before her.

"He killed my brother," she said.

"Sorry to hear that." His voice was not cruel, it was not a taunt, but nor was it particularly heartfelt. "Come here for what then? Justice?"

"Vengeance," she said, face snapping upward, eyes cold. He let out a breath of a laugh and leaned forward on the back of a chair.

"Where's your fiancé?" he asked. This time there was taunt.

"I have no fiancé," she whispered. "I have no one… until I return to Rhode Island."

There was a long pause. She waited for him to say something. _Won't you take me to Minnesota with you? You promised._

"Roper's comin' for me too," he finally said. "He'll meet his end. Nothin'ta worry about."

"I want to see it. I want him to know that… that he's dying because of what he did. To Jonathan."

"Oh yeah?" he asked. "'N how you gon' pay for that service, darlin'?" he asked her. He looked her over, slowly lowering himself into the chair to her right. His lips cured into a smile, a gold tooth flashed. Her heart hurt. "You finally ready to get on them knees?"

She stared at him a few long moments.

"You were right, Mr. Lawson," she finally spoke. "You are beneath me."

She pushed herself up from the chair. Her stomach hurt so badly. His hand darted out and seized her wrist. It was like a bolt of electricity. Her entire body hummed. She hated this man. She hated him.

"What is it you want me to do, darlin'?" he asked softly. She did not want to look at him. She looked down and he reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She said nothing. She closed her eyes. "I waited," he finally said. His voice was so soft. "'Till I knew you'd be alright. I made sure you was safe."

She let out a laugh. A cold, bitter laugh and looked up, tears dried up.

"And then you left," she accused. "And you didn't come back."

He stared at her.

"It is for the best," she said. "I could never be happy stuck here with you. You could never be the man I need. The man I deserve."

His gaze turned cold.

"That right, darlin'," he murmured, voice low, dangerous.

"Yes," she said firmly.

"Then what the fuck you doin' here?" he asked, leaning in closely. "The fuck you come runnin'ta me for, hmm?"

"Because you did this to me," she whispered. Their faces were close. Their noses were almost touching. "You ruined me. And you discarded me. I am not a plaything, Anderson, I am a human being. I cannot even look at the man I once loved. My brother is dead. And when I go back east I'm the girl that got raped in the west. Ruined."

He stared.

"You owe me this," she finished softly. He looked down at the table. "I hope you had fun with me."

She rose to leave. This man was not who she thought he was. He tugged her back down again.

"I'll get him," he promised. "I'll kill him. 'N he'll know why."

"I want to come," she said.

"He'll be comin' soon, darlin', best you go on home."

"I want to _see_. I want to go _now,_ " she demanded.

"I'm too goddamn drunk to anythin' right now, and you're in no state –"

"You want to make it right?" she asked him. "What you did?"

She leaned forward and placed her hands on either side of his face.

"Then take me with you."

He simple stared. She scoffed.

"You are not the man I thought you were," she told him. She got to her feet. She paused. "No… no you are _exactly_ the man I thought you were."

"Darlin'," he called, getting to his feet. The chair scraped across the floor. She paused. Slowly, she turned to face him. He stepped toward her, a slow saunter. He stopped before her, quite close, and breathed in deeply through his nose. His voice was soft. "We'll head out in the mornin'. Get some rest."

His hand lifted. He trailed his fingers along her cheekbone. A feather light touch. Her eyes closed. She almost asked him to hold her. Just to hold her and tell her he truly cared.

"Let's go on up to my room, darlin'. Hmmm?" he cooed. His hand smoothed over her cheek. Her heart shattered into shards of glass as a tear left her eye. That's all she was. All she would ever be to him.

She had truly thought he loved her.

His thumb wiped her tear away and she looked up at him. His gaze was tender and searching. His touch gentle.

"I would rather die," she whispered. "Then spent another second in your bed."

He blinked.

"Go back to your whore," she added. "That's all you'll ever be good enough for."

She turned to walk toward Captain Morsey. Maybe he would stay until morning so she would not have to pass the night alone with no place to go. With each step she took, she could feel Frank's murderous gaze the back of her head.

* * *

He watched her walk across the main saloon to the bar, her confederate escort there waiting. His blood boiled. His fury raged within him. Take her upstairs and show her what rape really was. That's what he wanted to do. Go back to his whore. She was his whore just a month ago. Anything he wanted from her, was his. He'd make it so again.

They were dark thoughts, borne of pain and humiliation, and they were fleeting, but when they passed, and his eyes remained on her, he felt himself consumed with the same feeling he had suffered through while he dug his sister's grave. Total despair. But this was worse, this was something he had never felt before. It might have been due to the elation he felt watching her walk through the door. For a blissful, euphoric moments, he actually thought she was coming back to him. He thought he'd have her in his arms again, he thought he was going to be able to press his lips to hers and sink himself deep inside of her. And then she spoke and he heard the ice in her voice, the disgust and loathing.

He turned and walked back into the room, plopping himself down in his chair. Susanna returned, running her hands through his hair and places soft kisses to his forehead, jaw and neck.

He'd been selfish. It is true. In stealing her. But did he deserve no credit? Did he deserve no credit for parting with her? He could have returned for her. He considered it. He wanted to. He didn't. He knew she was better off without him. It didn't matter that he spent his days drowning at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, dreaming of her, lost in the pit of despair because he wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to hear her use those fancy words of her. He wanted to smell her hair. He knew he didn't deserve her. That's why he gave her up. But to hear her say it. He didn't know if he wanted to kill her or cry at her feet and beg her to let him try to be the man she wanted.

_You'll never be. You can't be. It's not who you are._

"Where's your Yankee slut?" Sam asked. Frank looked up, eyes murderous.

"Watch your fuckin' mouth," he bit out. Sam's lips curved up into a smile.

"Well if you're done with her," he grinned. "I'll take her for a tumble."

"Put her in a room, they'll be a line from here to ole Meh-hi-co," Jed cackled. "Make quite a penny off her. Extra dollar, and you can piss on the Yankee cunt."

Frank was cross the table in a half second. Cards scattered. Classes broke. Whiskey fell to the ground and splattered across the floor. Jed's chair fell backward and they went flying through the door. The entire saloon fell silent and he raised his fist, slamming into Jed's nose. He pulled back again and his fist landed to his cheekbone. He heard the sound of a bone breaking. He punched him until his knuckles split and Jed lay there with broken teeth and a shattered jaw.

Susanna's small, cool hands touched his burning neck. Gently she pulled him back. He stumbled up to his feet. His hand trembling as he pointed at Jed, moaning and spitting out fragments of teeth.

"Don't you _ever_ …." He had to catch his breath. "Talk about her like that again. I'll kill you."

Susanna's hands gently rubbed the back of his neck. She touched the front of his vest and smiled at him. He didn't see her look over to Arabella, because his own gaze was on his beautiful Yankee. No… not his. Not anymore. Never was. She looked at the man on the floor. Slowly her eyes fluttered back up to him. She looked pale. Tired and sad. And she'd never been more beautiful.

_And she'd rather die than spend another second in bed with you._

He felt that need again. The need to hurt her. Force her into bed and take what he wanted, show her what kind of man he could really be. She was the only woman to ever inspire such feelings within him. It was not even what he meant. He wanted to take her somewhere safe. He wanted to take of her. He wanted to tuck her in and tell her he'd make everything OK.

Susanna turned his face toward hers. He didn't move when she brought his face down to kiss her. He pulled his face back. He looked at her.

"Get away from me, Susanna," he murmured. She ran her hands over his cheeks.

"Come on, sweetie," she said. "You can do what you want with me."

He took her hand and lead her toward the stairs. Arabella had turned, looking down at her drink. He got to the stairs and paused. She looked so sad. It ripped his heart out. And pain, he saw pain too. Maybe… maybe she…

"Arabella?" he asked softly. She looked up at him.

_I love you._

It was on his tongue.

"I _hate_ you," she said through gritted teeth. Her jaw trembled. He nodded.

"Get rest, Miss Dupont. We leave at sunrise," he looked at Susanna. "Darlin'."

He lead her by the hand up the stairs, but the moment the door shut behind him he sagged down in the chair, chilled to the core and numb to the bone.


	22. 22

There was no sleep to be had for either that night. While Frank lie awake beside the peacefully sleeping Susanna, a feeling of disgust and unyielding self-loathing took hold of him in his drunken stupor, eyes glazed and staring up into the darkness with a perilous desire to feel no more, Arabella sat in the corner of Blackjack's room, chivalrously surrendered to her by the gruff, war ravaged southerner. She stared up into the starry night, contemplating her life and the life she might have had. And has impossible as it might have been to explain, even to herself, she could not bring herself to lay all the blame for her pain at the feet of Frank Lawson.

A twisted and hateful man. He thought nothing of the future, only of the now. He might be dead tomorrow. Why plan a week in advance, let alone a year? And she had found herself caught up in this reckless and careless world of his through no fault of her own but being a pretty young northern lady on a train he happened to victimize. She should hate him for that. She should have hated him for stealing her, for raping her, for removing the beautiful veil she had before her eyes. He showed her what life was like away from the beautiful gowns and the champagne glasses and he made her feel a want that she did not know possible. She'd experienced being the object of a terrible, passionate, and irrational desire. One that transcended reason and morality. One that made it impossible to return to the measured and tempered affection of a gentleman who rarely acted on anything other than well planned out self-interest and thoughtful prudence.

But in the end, at the core of it, she did not hate him for ruining that life for her. She could live without the gowns and the dances and the glorious food, towering mansions. Her heart and passions had never been more stimulated than they had been the recent stretch of time she spent lost in the desert with a disgraced confederate criminal. She hated him because he removed that veil, opened her eyes and her passions, and then stepped away. He'd aroused this desire within her, ruined her life or any hope of returning to that life she had before, and then left her to her own devices. It was selfish. It was shortsighted. It was cruel.

And she hated him for making her hate herself. She'd waited there, lying in her sick bed, smiling and praying with her sweet, poor, lost brother, counting down the seconds that he would come through the door and whisk her away again. She had played over and over again in her mind what he might say to her when he came to rescue her from the monotony and the superficiality of her old life. Something sarcastic of course. Menacing. Oh so charming. And only now did she fully understand the scope of how pathetic she was. To have thought his affections would be long lasting. To have thought that this man's obsessive desire to possess her always would be constant.

That was why she hated him, because that was the blame she could lie at his feet. Archibald Roper killed her brother in some twisted understanding of justice. Another had pointed a gun and shot at her. Thaddeus was the inferior specimen of manhood. She could not rationally find fault in him for those things.

She stared out the window contemplating these things until the sun began to creep up in the horizon, turning the gray sky orange. She rose without even a glance at the bed, despite how tired her eyes were, and she moved from the room. She found Blackjack sleeping in the corner of the saloon, hat over his face, arms crossed, feet up on the table. She awoke him with a gentle pat to the shoulder, surrendered his room key, and a soft thank you.

The saloon was quiet. Men lay about, some still drunk, others beginning to move and groan as the aches in their head and the nausea grew in their stomach. She slipped outside and sat on a bench, waiting for Frank to come down stairs. He had said sunrise. A month ago she might have believed that. Now she knew it might not be until noon that he came down the stairs, a scantily clad and doting Susanna on his arm. Susanna was a constant. He might stray but her he went back to. And the defense of her Arabella had witnessed last night was like a dagger in her heart. At once time, it would have been Arabella's honor that was so near and dear to his heart.

_The man cannot love. He's broken._

She wondered what he might have been like as a young man, before the war tore apart their country, before his family fell to ashes and his home lay in ruins. Torched crops, mangled railways, torched cities, women's lives forever altered through the painful and horrific violence men could force upon them. She pictured a kind hearted young man. Sweet and caring, with tender bright blue eyes.

_You thought Anderson was still there, but Anderson died the day his sister hung herself. You never even met that man. Friendly Frank has possession of that body now._

It saddened her. It saddened her to the core.

There was a commotion to her left and she turned her head. The stable doors opened. She knew it was him by his walk. His head was down, his hat covering his face, and but the way he swayed, the way he held his shoulders. He had two horses by the reins, strapped with saddle bags, ready for a long journey. She was filled with excitement and dread all at once. She wanted to go back into the desert or into the mountains or anywhere that she could forget the world.

She did not know what come after this. When it was all said and done, if she lived, she did not want to go back East. She could not stand the scorn, the whispers, the critical and knowing glances. She did not want to go to California. She suddenly had no desire to ever see the ocean again. She wanted to see the lakes in Minnesota.

"Mornin' Miss Dupont," he said as he stopped before her. He tipped his hat, but did not even look at her. He tied the horses to a hitching post and set about adjusting some of the straps, double checking the supplies.

"Good morning, Mr. Lawson," she replied. He said nothing but his jaw clenched. He raised a flask to his lips, kept the tin tilted backwards a good long while, and then wiped his mouth.

"Gon' go into the mountains," he said. He looked to the east. "He'll track us eventually but we won't make it easy. Got to teach you to shoot proper, find good land. Can't go straight at him. He'll be ready for that."

She said nothing and he finally glanced at her to see if she was listening. Their eyes met and she continued to look at him without a word. He grunted and closed the saddle bag.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"I am not hungry," she answered.

"Have you eaten?" he asked again. She waited a moment, felt a grumble in her belly, and shook her head. He tossed her a small sack of salted fish. "Best get goin'. You can eat as we ride."

She nodded and got to her feet slowly but gracefully. She walked over to her horse, recognized him to be the horse she had before she was shot, and kissed his nose. She stroked him a moment, murmured her hellos, and then moved on to the saddle. She put her foot on the stirrup and reached up for the pommel. She braced herself and moved to pull upward. A scream of pain coursed through her abdomen and she let her other foot drop back to the ground.

A breath of pain left her and then she tried again. She got a little bit further up but her body simply would not push her any further. She closed her eyes in frustration, trying to fight her way through the pain. She did not want to ask for help, but she braced herself for it. Before her lips could part she felt hands on her waist, warm, and strong, gentle but firm. He eyes pressed together more firmly. She forced herself not to enjoy the feeling of his hands on her body.

"Arabella," he murmured softly behind her. "Can you ride?"

"Yes," she said. His hands remained on her waist and he hesitated. He leaned in more closely. Her knuckles turned white around the pommel. She shifted her foot in the stirrup.

"Can you ride?" he asked again, voice firmer. She nodded and turned her head. His face was far closer than she had anticipated. Her eyes found his and her lips pated. Those eyes were unparalleled. She nodded without a word.

"I can," she finally breathed. He nodded slowly, eyes dropping a fraction of a second to her mouth and then his hands tightened, they turned gruffer, and he lifted her up onto the horse.

"We'll go slow," he said and pulled himself up onto Bobby Lee.

"Where is my scarf?" she asked. She looked to the scar around his neck, partially concealed, but only by the collar of his shirt and coat. He shrugged.

"Lost its value to me," he said cruelly. She lowered her eyes.

"It had value to me," she answered. He looked at her a moment and she pulled on the reins, directed Ulysses toward the east. "This way?" she asked, voice cold and detached. He grunted and she spurred the horse on slowly.

They rode through the desert for some time. The day stretched on and grew warmer. It soon became hot. Now into September, the weather was cooling, but still she felt her head begin to ache and her skin turn red. But what was perhaps the worst of all was the pain that began to radiate in her side. She rode a few feet behind Frank at all times. Sometimes nearly as far as thirty feet behind him. But as the sun began its journey to the other side of the sky she could take no more.

"Anderson," she called softly, a grimace on her face and a hand pressed to her stomach. He turned his head to look back at her.

"Fuckin' Christ, darlin'," he cursed and turned the horse. "Tryin'ta kill yourself?"

He hopped down from his horse and immediately reached for her.

"I did not wish to delay us," she answered. She put her hands on his shoulders and he brought her to the ground, but he did not release her. He looked over her face, a frown darkening his features.

"Less than an hour's ride from the goddmaned mountains, stupid girl," he scolded. "Look at you."

He cursed again and shook his head. His hands released her and he grabbed ahold of both their horses.

"Sit," he ordered.

"How was I to know, sir," she responded angrily, lowering herself to the ground. Frank tied the horses together and brought them to the side to rest. He rummaged through the saddlebags.

"Funny thing called questions, Miss Dupont. Sometimes, they even have answers."

"Your anger is unwarranted, Mr. Lawson. I've done nothing to injure you."

He turned from the saddlebags to stare at her. His face held a message she could not decipher. He gazed at her as if she were a simpleton. The idiot every town seemed to possess. He turned around, shaking his head. She felt a spike of anger and looked to the side, pressing her hand more firmly into her side.

"You done too much too fast is the problem," he told her, coming toward her with a flask and a canteen. "How long it take you to get to Tularosa?"

"Two days, approximately," she grimaced and he crouched down before her. "We were in Santa Fe when we left."

He was shaking his head.

"See," he said. "This is why women need men to take care of 'em," he said, handing her the flask first. He reached up and knocked on her head. "Only a woman'll try 'n do what you did after getting' shot like that."

She raised the flask and took a big swig. She grimaced as the taste of whiskey flooded her mouth. She let out a sound of disgust and then brought it back to her lips.

"Or only a hard headed one like you," he added, taking the flask back. She brought up the canteen to her lips and took a few sips of water. She had already drunk hers dry. "One that don't know her place."

He got to his feet and she watched him move back to the horse. She could not quite tell if he was complimenting her or degrading her. She decided not to spend too much time trying to figure him out.

"I have no place, sir," she murmured instead. "You saw to that."

"Got some time o' sunlight left. Take a nap. You need it. I'll wake you when we got'ta get goin'."

"I am not tired," she said, but the warmth was building in her belly and spreading out to her limbs and her lack of sleep from the night before began to overcome her. "Another sip, perhaps?"

He handed her the flask. She took another two sips. He took it from her when she tried to take a third.

"Drink too much 'n a headache'll follow. Don't want that too," he cautioned. He removed his jacket and balled it up. He tossed it on the ground. "Sleep."

He squinted out into the sun.

"We'll be safe here 'n hour or so. I'll protect you from the snakes."

She laughed at that. A bitter laugh. She wondered if he understood exactly what he had just said. But she said nothing and lowered herself down to the hard desert dirt.

"The mountains are close?"

"Mountains 'n water," he promised. She smiled, pressing her face into his coat.

"Get up," the voice was gruff but not cruel. Her eyes fluttered open and she was struck with confusion. "Been almost three hours."

She looked up into a pair of bright blue eyes.

"Anderson?" she asked, a soft smile coming to her lips. She reached toward him, her hand searching for his stubbly chin. She let it drop suddenly. She looked around, rubbing her tired eyes. They were in the desert. Her brother was dead and Frank had a new girl now.

He slowly moved away from her.

"Feelin' better? Enough to ride a short ways?"

She nodded and sat up with a grimace, touching her side.

"Wan'another sip?" he asked, holding up the flask. She shook her head. She brought his canteen to her lips and took a large swig.

"How much further?" she asked. He turned to look at her, examining her closely, and then put something back into his saddle bag.

"Hour to the mountains. Know a place to camp overnight, 'n then it's about findin' good land."

She got to her feet and moved over to the horses, his coat in her hands. "And…" he turned as she cut off her speech. She held out the coat. "Mr. Lawson."

He looked at her. His eyes dropped. He considered the coat. He took it from her roughly. She let the fabric be ripped from her fingers and moved over to the horse. She thought she could get up on her own this time. The whiskey helped dull the pain. But just as she put her foot in the stirrup and closed her hand around the pommel, his hands were on her hips, gentle but firm, and he very gently lifted her upwards. She thanked him softly.

"You need'ta stop, darlin' use those fancy words o' yours 'n tell me, yeah?" he asked. He was considerably less rude in his tone than he had been since they started. It was a soft, exasperated tone, one that almost had her thinking there was genuine, tender concern in his bright, icy gaze. "This whole thing aint for nothin' if you get yourself killed 'cause o' your goddamned Yankee stubbornness."

"Yankee stubbornness?" she asked, eyebrows lifting, but the smile coming to her lips was icy cold. "Coming from a southerner, I find that more than a little amusing. I am quite well now, thank you. Shall we proceed?"

"Whatever the fuck you want, princess."

His tone was not biting. It was not vicious or abusive, but she found that his apparent indifference to the vulgar in her presence bothered her more than insults or cruelty he might have held in his tone. Once, unless it was to fulfill his own sexual amusement, he would never have dared to speak in such a way in her presence. Hatred would have hurt far less than indifference.

They rode on for the rest of the day. It was an hour or so before sunset that they reached the mountains. The temperature of the air dropped steadily, though it had little to do with the setting sun, and all to do with the canopy of trees and the rise of grassy earth beneath their horses. A very real smile even came to her lips as they left the harsh desert behind and entered into what she could not consider an oasis.

"We'll stop here," he said, pulling them to a halt in a small grassy clearing about two miles into the foothills. "Good spot."

"Why?" she asked, looking around curiously. He glanced at her observing her thoughtfully again, and then looked down to his watch.

"Cover o' trees," he said looking up. He nudged his chin toward their left. "Rock there, good to have our backs to. No one'll sneak up, potentially cover from any cool breezes comin' in. Elevated. Can see down that ridge clear as day. Road that way, leadin' to the only little town up here. Any one comes up this way, it'll be in that direction."

She nodded and lowered herself from her horse with some difficulty, but she kept even the slightest of grimaces from her lips. She never before considered how much thought he actually put into things.

"You sit down," he ordered, heaving his saddle bag from Bobby Lee.

"Do you not need me to assist you?" she asked. He tossed the saddle bag down and tied Bobby Lee to a tree where he could graze.

"You got a mighty low opinion o' me," he smiled at her. It looked happy but there was ice in his eyes. "Sit down 'n rest. I'll set up camp."

He started a fire for her first. Not something he probably would have set about before gathering water and getting the horses settled, but he did it all the same, heating up a can of beans for her. He set up her own bedroll first. She thanked him as she moved onto the more comfortable area. He went about setting up his own space on the other side of the fire.

_A month ago he'd be pawing at you already,_ she thought. She tried to think it bitterly, with relief and contempt. It only made her sad.

"I do have a low opinion of you," she told him. He froze his hands smoothing out the bedroll. His eyes rolled upward to look at her, but his face remained angled downward. He looked quite dangerous. It spurred her on. "Just so you are aware."

"Oh, I'm aware. No need to fear on that account," he told her.

"The only way you could have ever had a woman like me is by stealing her."

He continued to smooth out the bedroll despite it being finished.

"Yet you surrender her for a Susanna," she mused softly. His hands grew roughly with the blanket beneath him.

"Susanna aint nothin'ta me," he told her. "She's a whore that spreads her legs to me for free. Like you were. If you don't remember."

"I remember being raped," she answered. It struck a nerve and he looked up sharply, body tensing violently. He pointed at her.

"I didn't rape you," he said venomously.

"Oh, yes, because I was so willing when you took my virginity." It was spoken with a laugh.

"You said it yourself," he reminded her. His eyes were alight. She saw the danger in them, but she would not shy away. "You said it weren't no rape."

"What was I to say, Mr. Lawson? I was at your mercy," she pointed out. "Do you think that I would have ever let you touch me willingly? Do you think I could have stomached it?"

His lower jaw jutted out slightly but his lips remained pressed together. His icy eyes burned with rage.

"Do you think," she continued on looking directly into her eyes. "That I would have looked on you with anything but contempt and disdain otherwise?"

"You best stop talkin', Arabella," he said, voice low, calm, and dangerous. "Or I'll show you what rape is. I'll make it hurt 'n make you bleed, 'n I'll like it."

She stared into his eyes. It felt like an eternity passed. The fire crackled.

"Do it then," she finally said. _Make me hate you._ "Rape me like those soldiers raped your sister. I bet she suffered."

He was on his feet in a second. He loomed over her dangerously. He took one step, then another, then another, until he rounded the fire and stood above her. His hands were balled into fists. His hands trembled. She put her hand on the ground and pushed herself up to her feet. There was pain in her abdomen but she ignored it. She arched her neck, looking up into his eyes.

His hand lifted slowly. She waited for it to close around her throat, but it lifted higher. His hand closed around her chin. Firm enough to cause discomfort but not hard enough to hurt.

"You wan' know somethin' darlin'?" he murmured. "I could have you pantin' like a whore in a matter o' seconds. You're disgusted by me, I get it," he added. He brought her face closer. He dipped his head. Their lips were close. His eyes scorched her soul. "But that doesn't stop the fact that deep down you know I made you my whore. Whatever might o' happened that first night. Those first few days…" he shook his head. "You spread your legs for me whenever I wanted, 'n we both know that wasn't rape. I might be nothin' but a dog 'n your eyes, but you were my little bitch 'n heat. You think on that."

Her lips parted and a breath left her. His eyes went to her lips. He stepped away from her. His hand fell from her chin. She blinked rapidly, biting back tears.

"That's it then?" she asked. Her voice sounded hallow. _That's all the emotion you can muster for me?_

"That's it," he said, lowering himself down to his bedroll. "You beat up on me all you want. I aint gon' hurt you anymore, Arabella," he added, tossing a rock into the fire, his arms resting on his bent knees.

She lowered herself back down and gazed into the fire.

"You couldn't hurt me anymore if you tried," she whispered. Neither slept. Though a silent, windless night, they stared into the crackling fire, neither able to comprehend the other's pain.


	23. 23

23

" _My bonnie lies over the ocean. My bonnie lies over the sea._

_Oh bring back my bonnie to me."_

Frank sang to himself as he stirred the beans around in the can, breathing in the rich aroma deeply. Arabella had stayed awake until the sun had just begun to creep up over the trees. Before the soft suggestion that they get a move on could form into words and escape his lips she had lowered herself down the bedroll silently, closed her eyes, and went to sleep. He had not had it in him to tell her it was far too late for sleep. That this was not their camp and they needed to continue on to high ground.

Indeed, he had quite enjoyed being able to stare across the dying fire at her freely. He added a log when she began to shiver, but he remained mostly still for some time, hours most likely, simply looking over every little line of her face, every little shadow, curve and angle. He had not ever expected to see her again. The elation and joy he felt in his heart as he let his eyes roam free over her soft features was more painful than he ever thought possible.

He slapped the spoon against the side of the can and plopped the stolen silver between his lips. He moved over to Arabella and reached for her shoulder. But instead of her shoulder, his hand found her face. Her skin was smooth, pale, and so very soft. Gently he trailed the back of his knuckle across the silk flesh. He raised his free hand to collect the silver spoon from between his lips and he breathed,

"Bring back, bring back, bring back my bonnie to me _…"_

The pad of his thumb crossed over her lips and he closed his eyes and aimed his face to the heavens.

_Have I not suffered enough?_

He'd suffered enough for ten lifetimes. Now he must suffer more, for the suns he had committed. For the atrocity he had forced upon an innocent. He put his hand on her shoulder, slight and slender, and shook her gently. She began to stir and he began to sing happily.

" _We are the band of brothers and native to the soil_

_Fighting for our liberty with treasure, blood and toil_

_And when out rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far,_

_Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star._

He moved away as her eyes fluttered open in confusion.

" _Hurrah! Hurrah! For southern rights Hurrah!_

_Hurrah for the bonnie blue flag that bares a single star."_

He reached for the can and winced as he pulled it from above the fire. He lowered it to the ground and wagged his hand. He let out a curse, biting down on the spoon he had put back between his teeth. He sang again as he grimaced, checking his hand to find only reddened skin.

" _Hurrah! Hurrah! For southern rights Hurrah!_

_Hurrah for the bonnie blue flag that bares a single star."_

"Oh goodness," she said, pressing a slender hand to her forehead. "Must you?"

He looked up and grinned.

"Is it your desire to alert the world to our presence?" she asked him haughtily. He smiled and held his hands out, sucking in a deep breath and yelled up to the clear blue sky.

" _Southern men the thunders mutter,_

_Northern flags in south winds flutter,_

_To arms! To arms! To arms in Dixie!"_

He cackled as she glared at him and he picked up the can, shielding his skin with the sleeves of his shirt, and placed it in front of her. He licked the spoon and then jammed it into the steam beans.

"It's hot," he told her and got his feet.

"You are in a fine mood," she muttered bitterly as he wondered behind a tree and unfastened his trousers.

"Reason I shouldn't I be?" he asked. His voice did not display the discomfort that was splashed across his face. He relieved himself and waited a moment, leaning back against the tree and staring upward.

"Being separated from a sweetheart usually puts men in an ill-temper," she replied.

_Oh darlin', I've only just found her again._

He frowned, considering her words. For a brief moment there was a flash of hope. Then only bitter realization. He buckled his belt and walked back to their little camp.

"Don't remind me darlin'. Who knows what a man'll do when his blood gets hot," he replied, plopping down and reaching for his flask. She stared at him a moment, eyes thoughtful. She looked down to the beans and fished out a spoonful, careful to avoid the hot tin. "Might decide to take out my frustrations on the prettiest Yankee I can find."

"You won't touch me," she informed him sharply. " _Ever again."_

"Oh darlin' no fear on that," he added with own sharp smile.

_You can't help but remind me how disgustin' I am to you._

Her skin was red, but it was not one of her pretty blushes. Her skin was blotchy, uneven, and there was a slight tremor to her lower lip. It was so slight indeed, he was not entirely sure if he was imagining it or not.

"What do we do now?" she asked, voice smooth and calm.

"Head up the mountain," he said, his eyes moving her neck. That blasted dress covered her collar bone and chest. "I know a place we can spend some time at. Put a roof over your head. Then we wait."

"That is it?" she asked him. He looked at her, eyebrows elevated.

"Problem with that battle plan, sweetheart?" he asked. She pressed her lips together.

"I had hoped for something a bit more proactive," she replied. He tilted his head and her lips twitched. "Aggressive."

"Ah,  _proactive_. Well, darlin', you came to me for help. I agreed. You don't get'ta tell me how to do it too, y'understand?"

She glared at him and jammed the spoon back into the beans. His eyes darted downward as he watched her hand reach for the hot metal. His own hand darted outward, his body lurching forward, and he caught her by the wrist. He tilted her hand so her palm faced upward and smiled at her.

"Hand too damn pretty to burn," he murmured. She ripped her hand away and his smile slowly slipped from his face.

"Do  _not_ ," she said, getting to her feet. "Touch me."

The disgust in her words rippled through him.

He looked up at her from his knees. He squinted into the sun. She collected her skirts and turned to walk away from camp. His hand darted upward and he seized her again. In a single motion he was on his feet, towering over. Her eyes widened. Terror seized her. He took another step toward her. It forced her to retreat. He watched fear etch its way into her features and he felt a sense of satisfaction, bested only by his growing anger. He felt a wave of possessiveness crash over him. A terrible consideration pierced his brain. He blinked when he had her back pressed against a tree. His eyes lowered to her lips and he took a moment to collect himself.

"Get your horse," he said gruffly. He turned and set about cleaning up camp. She set about her own tasks silently. He'd turn his head to look at her, hoping he might find her gaze on him, hoping he might find her quickly look away, but her face was serene, angled downward to her work.

" _Oh, I'm a good rebel, that's just what I am,"_ he sang as he attached the last saddle bag to Bobby Lee. " _And for this Yankee nation, I don't give a damn."_

He glanced over at her. Her lips were pressed together and her motions were jerky and tense. He was pleased to see anger on that face. Anything but indifference.

" _I'm glad I fought a ganner. I only wish we'd won,"_ he continued, sauntering over her. She yelped as he put his hands on her hips and hoisted her, as gently as he could, up on her saddle. She looked down at him. He lifted his hat from his head, holding it about a half foot from his hair, and lifted his eyebrows. " _I aint ask any pardon, for anything I've done."_

He put his hat back on and turned toward his horse, continuing his song.

"I'll teach you the words," he grinned at her as he turned the horse around to face her.

"Someone will know there was a fire there," she informed him haughtily. He glanced down to where the fire had been, sloppily put out and smoothed over. Any halfway decent tracker would be able to find the remnants of a camp.

"Oh, darlin', you think you're so smart, don'tcha?" he asked. He gave her a wink and turned the horse. "Member, use those fancy words for me if you need'ta stop."

The way was mostly clear. There were a fair few rough patches where rock jutted up from the ground and the earth grew steep, but the horses were true and Arabella was a better horseman than he had given her credit for. Only once did she call his name, unsure which was the best track to take. He told her to follow him, but her troubled gaze darted over the treacherous trail. He called for her to wait. He would come back to help her once he was safely over the hump and could tie Bobby Lee safely. He was both surprised and awash with admiration when he got to the top of the hill and turned to see Arabella directly behind him, tongue pressed to her upper lip, eyes alight with concentration, and reigns held tightly in her fragile hands.

 _She'll be wasted on any other man,_ he thought as he watched a prideful smile come over her lips. He imagined her back East, cooped up like a pretty little bird in a pretty little room, sipping on tea and listening to the piano, gentleman treating her like a little flower, murmuring condescending sweet nothings to her as they went after her fortune and her magnificent little form. A barrage of images coursed through him then. Images of her in bed with another. A fine, soft, Yankee gentleman. A man who didn't deserve her, touching her softly, ever the respectable lady.

_That's where she'll be happy. Happy and safe._

On some level it bothered him that her safety meant more to him than her happiness. It didn't feel right. He knew, to his shame, that if he thought he could protect her he never would have let her go. Coerced affection he could find comfort in. When he closed his eyes he could still feel the soft, delicate hands running through his sandy hair and now, as he had done then, he could still trick himself into thinking she was happy. But her safety was something he could not guarantee and he would rather live his life alone and miserable knowing she still breathed the same air as he, than know the world had lost such a woman because of his own selfish actions. He did not want to bring her pain. He did want her to be happy and he knew she could never be happy with him. But her happiness had been far from the driving force of his decision to surrender his rights to her.

"You're a regular cowboy, Miss Dupont," he told her as she got Ulysses safely over the ridge. Her smile was radiant. He stared at her, a smile on his lips. It was a cruel punishment but one he knew he deserved. He had stolen her, possessed her as his spiraling obsession had compelled him, and God, a cruel, hateful entity, made him love her.  _A cruel God, but not one lacking humor._

He reached into his holster and retrieved the Remington. He handed it out to her.

"I can carry it?" she asked. He nodded.

"Remember how to speed-load?"

She nodded.

"Pull, slide, drop," she said, mimicking the motions. He could not help but smile, but it was a small, sad smile. He nodded and handed her the cylinders he had in his pocket. She tucked them into a saddle bag, easily accessible should she need them, and tucked the revolver into the belt of her skirt.

"Member that purple dress?" he asked before he even knew sound was passing from his lips. She looked up in surprise. "You should wear purple more."

She nodded and looked down, pulling up the reigns and looking up at the sky.

"Are we close?"

He looked up and saw the clouds beginning to form through the canopy of trees.

"Yeah," he answered but he felt a sliver of worry try and worm its way into his chest. He knew of the place. Blackjack had told him about when Frank had stumbled out of Susanna's bed that morning and found Blackjack sleeping in the corner. He was not entirely sure of its location.

He turned the horse and they began climbing up the mountain. He felt confident as they moved on. He noticed the landmarks that Blackjack had described. He followed them closely and he knew that with patience, the little abandoned safe house would be discovered before nightfall. But when he felt a hard drop of rain make its way through the leaves and collide painfully with his right eye, he felt some concern begin to take root. He removed his hat and looked up toward the sky. The sound of gentle rain could be heard in the silent forest, pattering against the trees gently. Every so often, a drop of water would sprinkle his face. He glanced at Arabella and was pleased to find she did not seem all that concerned. He had her face angled upward, a little lift to her lips. It occurred to him rather suddenly that despite her cruelty, she still trusted him to take care of her. It was a realization he would have much rather never come to. The concern quickly turned to panic and he moved toward her, plopping his hat down on her head, brow furrowed. He knew September storms in New Mexico. She didn't.

She looked over in surprise and he scurried past her. She kept up with his quickened pace, but as he sped up, the rain seemed to as well. A dreary mist was soon a gentle rain. He scanned the forest for the last of the markers, gritting his teeth together. Suddenly his horse jerked beneath him, Arabella's did the same and the forest went alight, a terrible crash of thunder exploding above their heads.

"Anderson?"

He looked over and found big doe eyes fixed on him, questioning him, worry threatening to take root into fear. He swallowed, hating the look of doubt in those big brown eyes. He hopped off his horse and said nothing as he approached her. She allowed him to remove her from the horse and he tucked her carefully in the crevice of a rock, the tree above her head protecting her from the rain. He brought Ulysses over next. He resisted once as another crack of lightening lit up the darkening forest and another crash erupted above their head. He brought Ulysses down to his knees and took hold of Arabella's face.

"You stay here a moment, yeah?" he told her. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" she asked. The air had a coldness to it, worsened by the cold water that was falling down from the gray sky. Luckily, the winds had yet to pick up. They would be in some trouble then.

"I can move faster on my own. It's close. Stay here."

Her hands darted out as he tried to leave, grabbing onto his coat tightly. She simply stared, eyes reluctantly trustful but still full of apprehension. He firmly took hold of her face, covering her cold, wet, and red cheeks, and brought it closer to his.

"I aint leavin' you," he promised. She nodded and released him. He ripped off his coat and draped it over her. That, the horse, and crevice she was tucked in would protect her enough from the window until he could return. He jumped up on Bobby Lee, a shiver biting through him, and pushed onward. It took no more than twenty minutes in reality, but by the time he returned to Arabella he felt as though it had been an eternity. He was aflush with concern, anger, and terrible embarrassment. How he could have let something like this happen, when it was more than himself he had to care for, weighed down on him.

He crouched down before her, ready for the accusation in her eyes, the biting remark about his manhood. She looked up, water trailing over the brim of his hat, cheeks flushed red, and her eyes lit up with relief, a smile coming to her face.

"I knew you wouldn't leave the hat," she tried to joke, but her teeth were rattling. He could not feel the cold.

"Walk the horse," he said and lead them the quarter mile through the woods to the little safe house. It was but a shack really. There was just a single room with a dirt floor, a small portion of it with floorboards for sleeping. Both the horses could fit inside comfortably. Really, the safe house was made for far more than two people and two horses, but it was far from lavish. All he could be thankful for was the fact that the roof was sturdy and the little room was dry.

Arabella immediately set about removing the saddlebags from her horse, teeth chattering and slender body trembling. After securing the door he removed one bag from Bobby Lee and set about lighting the fire. The little chimney was crude, cruder than even the chimney he had in his childhood home, but it would do the job of filtering out the smoke and keeping them warm.

"Arabella," he said as he got the spark lit and the little fire sprang to life. She looked over at him, trembling as she laid out the bedroll on the floorboards. "Arabella, come here."

"The bags –"

" _Now_ ," he barked. She dropped the bedroll and scurried over to him. He peeled off his shirt and gently tugged her down toward him. She did not protest as he took off his wet hat and jacket from her, but her hands grabbed his wrists as he began to pull at the belt around her skirts. "Wan' catch your death?" she heisted and he began pulling at the belt. "Didn't think so."

He got her down to her corset cover and drawers, but did not trust himself to undress her any further, despite the fact that the fabric was still rather damp. This case, the layers and layer of fabric worn by respectable women saved her from his lecherous gaze. He turned her so she leaned back into his chest, nestled between his spread legs, and he ran his hands up and down her shivering shoulders. The fire heated the room quickly and his hands slowed on her shoulders.

His eyes found the top of her head. His arms closed around her body. She leaned into him with a sigh and closed eyes. Her head fell back on his shoulder and he looked over her face, his heart swelling painfully.

_If you want you could have her. You can stay up here forever. She don't have a choice._

"No," he murmured softly. Her eyes fluttered open. His blue gaze locked onto hers. Plump, pink lips parted, drawing his gaze downward.

"No?" she asked softly. Her finger lifted, trailing the scar around his throat. When she lifted her gaze once more his eyes were back on hers. Her eyes stayed on his. Her head tilted back, her lips parted further. He stared at her mouth a moment more before his neck bent and his head dipped.

"My –"

His head froze and he looked up. Her eyes were wide and her mouth remained open, the words dead on her tongue. He waited, throat dry, heart pounding. She waited, silently.

"Your what, darlin'?" he asked, voice low and scratchy.

"My middle hurts," she whispered. He nodded and gently, painfully slowly, so he could keep his hands on her just a little longer, sat her up straight. Slowly he moved away from her, a rush of air escaping his lungs. He retrieved the one of the bottles of whiskey he had brought, pausing a moment to touch the pink fabric that lay shoved in next to it. He ran his fingers over it, but it did nothing to ease his hurt. It only seemed to deepen it. He walked over, cracking the bottle open, and handed it to her. Next, he set about preparing a place for them sleep. He laid out her bedroll on the floorboard, adding one of his blankets to made the spot softer, and the spread his out by the fire. He knew very well he could not trust himself to sleep so close, nor did she want him anywhere near her.

He glanced up to find her observing him thoughtfully, sipping on the whiskey bottle. She grimaced, shook her head, and then took another sip. Once his spot was settled he retrieved his now dry shirt and put it back on. He threw on his vest, but left it unbuttoned. Next, he reached out and she surrendered the whiskey bottle.

"Warm enough if you wan' get some sleep," he murmured against the neck of the whiskey bottle. He tilted the bottle back. He should have brought more than two bottles. She carefully spread out her out clothing and then moved over to her bedroll.

"Anderson?"

He glanced up at her, eyes tired. She was lying down, a blanket pulled over her, face toward him. She stared at him. For a long time there was nothing but the sound of the rain pattering against the roof, the occasional eruption of thunder.

"The horses," she finally said.

"Hmm?" he asked.

"Don't they need to be fed?"

He glanced toward them. They still needed to be unsaddled.

"Don't you worry on that," he murmured and looked to the fire. "I'll take care of it."

There was silence. She watched him for some time longer, but when he finally looked up from the fire, lips parted, ready to speak, he found her sleeping peacefully. His eyes bore into her and he raised the whiskey back to his lips. His insides trembled and he felt that piercing in his brain. It was how he had felt the night after seeing her on that train. That burning, inexplicable desire, no,  _need_. It burned within him with a power he could not explain. It was like oxygen. It was how Archibald Roper felt before the kill. Frank had never felt such a desire, such a terrible need until this woman came into his life. He hated her for it. He hated her for making him feel like this, he hated her for being on that train and he hated her for making him love her.

"I hate you," he whispered. "I love you."

His voice was drowned out by the clapping of thunder above their heads. The shack ratted. He pressed his hand to his trousers and leaned back against the wall. He raised the whiskey bottle to his lips once more, tilting it back and leaving it there. When he lowered it down to rest between his knees, he leaned back, pressing his head to the wall. Listening to the sound of her soft breathing through the spattering of rain on the roof, he let his mind wander. The warmth of being inside of her. The touch her hands. The taste of her flesh. The feel of her lips on his skin. Terrible, dark thoughts threatened to consume him once more.


	24. 24

The rain had yet to subside when Arabella awoke next. Without a window in the room and the door secured tightly she could hardly tell if it was still night or now day. She lay there in the silence, her blankets pulled up tightly to her chin, listening to the sound of the hard water droplets banging onto the roof. The fire would crackled occasionally. The air was warm and dry. They lay there for a long while, basking in the comfort she felt. So far from home, alone in the woods with a heartless criminal, she should have been frightened, home sick, anything of the like. Instead, she felt warm, secure, and even with the pain the man had caused her, she felt an undeniable feeling of comfort knowing he was so close.

She turned her head to where he lay by the fire, but a frown washed across her face. His bedroll was empty and he could not even be found amongst the resting horses. Slowly she pushed herself up into a seated position, some worry beginning to peck at her. She glanced down to the whisky bottle resting against his makeshift pillow and had a terrible image of him wandering around the forest drunk and in his terrible weather. She threw her blankets off of her and reached for her clothing, readying to dress herself and find the missing rebel.

But just before she could get her skirt up off the ground by the fire, the door flung open and Frank came rushing inside. He slammed the door shut, difficult with the force of the wind, and shook his head. He turned, seemed surprised to find her awake, and then moved to the fire.

"Woowee, it's a wild one out there," he said, water running off of his soaked clothing and pouring from the brimmed of his drenched hat as he sauntered back to the fire.

"Do you ever sleep?" she asked him. He dropped a bundle of fur down onto the ground. She examined it, silently marveling how he could have found an animal to kill in this weather.

"When I'm drunk," he answered, plopping down before the fire. He tossed his hat toward the flames, peeled off his coat, and then reached for an animal. He took out his blade and tapped his temple with it. "Drowns out the nightmares."

She watched him begin to skin the animal, her stomach churning uncomfortably.

"Are you ever not drunk?" she asked, settling before the fire and hugging her knees to her chest. He paused his motions and looked at her.

"Most times," he answered, "When I had you anyway." He gave her a little smile. "You made the nightmares stop."

Silence hung in the air and he stared into the flames. She lowered her eyes, swallowing painfully.

_Say something, Arabella. Just say something._

But no words came and he went back to his skinning of the animal. Her pride got the better of her and before she could find the courage to speak the moment had past. She did not know what she might have said had she allowed words to fall from her lips. Would she have begged him to take her back? She could not stomach such terrible humiliation. He'd take a whore over her.

_You were a rich Yankee out of his reach. Then you were just another girl._

It hurt but she knew it to be true. She could never be what he wanted and be with him, for as long as she was with him, she'd never be what he wanted. It was cruel, but she refused to be a topic for ridicule while he drank with his whores and gambled with his friends.

That she had come to accept, but she had not decided just yet if she would part from Frank when this was all over, without enjoying his bed one more time. She did not know if it would hurt more than it might give her some comfort. She did not know if her pride would let her engage in such an activity, knowing she was nothing but temporary entertainment to him. She looked over at him, carefully and with great concentration preparing the animal for a meal.

She missed the feel of his hands, his mouth, the very smell of him. Earthy and masculine, tobacco and alcohol. A smell no should like. A smell she had come to love.

"What time is it?" she asked. He paused to examine his watch, the one she had helped him steal. She looked down, remembering the day he had first taken her away. She wished she could go back and start over. Maybe she wouldn't have made things so easy for him. He might have kept her then.

"Bout four," he answered.

"Four?" she asked in shock.

"In the mornin'," he corrected. "Surprised you're up."

"I may return to bed. I feared you were out stumbling around drunk in this weather. I was about to come searching."

"Unnecessary. Took care o' myself a long time 'n made it this far," he mused. "But I am mighty touched you care so much."

Something about the way he said it had her anger flare again. She felt a terrible rush of hurt. That he would mock her feelings after all they went through.

"You are needed to kill Roper. After that you can go find a river to drown in for all I care," she answered with far more bite than she intended. Her guilt was compounded by his silence. He stared into the flames, the animal resting in his hands. She nestled down into her blankets, pressing herself into the far wall.

"When you wake up, I'll have somethin' for you to chow on," he told her softly. He resumed his attention to the animal. She turned around without a word, giving him her back. The wind howled and the building shook. Thunder crashed, the rain picked up. It drowned out the sound of the crackling fire. At some point, Frank began to sing softly. It was all for the best. Now there was no chance he could hear her cry.

* * *

Arabella awoke the next day and she heard birds. Frank was nowhere to be seen, but she saw light shining out from beneath the door. Resting by the fire was a little tin place with half a tiny rodent resting atop it. She reached for it, silently tearing apart the tender flesh with her hands and placing it between her lips. She did not realize just how hungry she had been and in that moment it tasted better than any meal she ever had at a Rhode Island ball. She dressed herself and retrieved her gun, walking outside to find the horses grazing in the tiny little clearing the safe house had. It was no more than six or so feet, but it was enough for the horses to enjoy.

"Anderson?" she called. She got no response and moved away from the safe house. The earth was damp but the sun above her head was strong and managed to force its way through the trees and give her some warmth. She kept herself in a straight line, making sure she knew exactly how to return to the safe house, but it felt nice to be able to stretch her legs.

She found the stream quickly. It was within close proximity to the safe house and now overflowing with cold rainwater. It was certainly not the wisest thing to do without Frank being on hand to keep an eye out for her, but she remembered the way in which he had sung on their way up the mountain, entirely convinced that there was no one around for miles and miles to hear. She considered a moment longer, ran her eyes over the water, and decided it was far too tempting.

She removed her skirt and slipped from her blouse. She removed her undergarments close to the bank of the rocky river and slipped into the cold water. A smile immediately came to her lips as she sunk downward. It was not overly deep, but with the rain water, it was enough that she could submerge herself in the water, using the rocks as arm rests and anchors to keep her from floating away. Her hair fanned out around her and she stayed there for some time, simply enjoying the cool water and the feel of it rushing past her skin.

Even when she did drag herself to the shore, she was not ready to get out of the water. The only thing forcing her out of the water was the fear that Frank had returned and would come looking for her, or worse, decide to  _punish_ her. She felt a little thrill shoot up her spine and she closed her eyes. She took a breath to collect herself but a cool, gentle freeze sent a shiver through her and she resumed dressing.

When she turned to return to camp a screech of terror ripped from her throat. She took a jump backward, hand clutching at her blouse.

"God dammit, Anderson!" she shouted at him angrily. His soft little chuckle passed through his lips and he kept his face angled downward, covered by the brim of his hat. When he lifted his head he had a little smile on his lips. He tapped a bit of snuff onto the back of his hand and inhaled it with a violent sniff of the nose. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Oh, a good long while," he smiled. "Was such a pretty view."

"You're a pig," she huffed, collecting her skirts and readying herself to move past him.

"I aint the one undressing hisself in the mountains for any savage to come 'n find."

"Savages?" she asked, lips parting. He shrugged.

"Might be."

"You might have told me that!" she berated.

"I was scoutin' the area. Come back 'n you was gone," he answered. "Not my fuckin' fault you couldn't stay put. Whatever man finds himself with the job a keepin' you under control is gon' have a mighty hard task, indeed."

She pinched her lips together.

"Well," she finally said with a haughty, pinched smile and a tilt of her head. "Not something you need waste time worrying on, Mr. Lawson."

She moved to brush past him, chin lifted, righteous indignation hiding her true feelings. The lifted chin and arrogant smile slipped from her lips when she felt the bruising grip to her upper arm, halting her and pulling her close to him. Her heart pounded as he looked into her eyes, both his face and eyes perfectly neutral, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and measured. Still, there was weight to his voice, a tone that left her sober and attentive.

"You watch yourself, darlin'," he began. "I mean it. You're playin' with fire."

"Forgive me," she whispered. "I'll try to be more like your perfect little whore."

She tried to move away but he jerked her back toward him, his fingers biting into her skin.

"You wan' act like it I'll treat you like it," he said, voice suddenly not so calm.

"Let go of me," she said, trying to pull her arm away. He was too strong

"I'm warnin' you now, beautiful," he told her. "I aint a strong man. Keep doin' what you're doin', and I'll put you on your back. Y'understand?"

"And what am I doing?" she whispered. She looked directly into his eyes. Her heart pounded in her throat. Her insides quivered. But her voice was hard, her eyes never wavered, and her voice held a challenge.

"You're askin' for it, is what you're doin'," he answered.

"I have never  _asked_ for you to touch me," she said, voice icy. "And I never will. You repulse me, you filthy, southern, uneducated, illiterate, ignorant, wretch. Hopefully, that is now abundantly clear."

She tried to move past him once more but his grip tightened. Now it was painful. He lowered his head so it was close to hers. His eyes burned.

"Try me again, Arabella. I'll put you in your place," he seethed. "Yankee  _bitch_."

Her heart hurt it beat so hard. It hurt to swallow, it was so dry. She lifted her chin and pushed herself up on the balls of her feet.

"You're too much of a coward," she whispered. A vein bulge in his forehead and beneath his eye. His jaw clenched.

He wouldn't hurt her. She knew that. But maybe…

She ripped her arm from his hand and walked past him. It was with bitter disappoint that she heard no angry footsteps in pursuit behind her.

* * *

Anderson stood swaying against the tree. He felt the last ounce of control slipping from his body and the harder he tried to grasp for it the more it seemed to slip between his fingers like water, sand, smoke. He knew he should walk away. He should think about something else but those words bounced around the inside of his skull, repeating themselves over and over and over. He closed his eyes and looked up toward the canopy of trees above their head.

And as those words continued to repeat in his brain, he saw the image of that beautiful pale body floating in the water, perfect, beautiful, marred only by the bullet hole he had so carelessly caused, but it still did nothing to take away from her beauty.

He began to move his feet, but his legs, heavy like stone, but sickeningly numb, did not carry him through the shallow water and away from the Yankee, but instead, the safe house came into view. It was no longer a consideration that he should turn back. He pressed on, flinging himself into the door so hard it nearly flung from its hinges.

Arabella looked up from her knees, smoothing out her bedding. Her eyes widened and he slammed the door shut behind him. The safe house rattled.

"What are you doing?" she asked but his belt was already in his hands. Her eyes widened further.

"What are you doing?" she asked again.

"Puttin' you in your place," he said. She scrambled away from her bedding, kicking up the previously made bed, and got herself into the corner. He closed on her fast, quick, long strides. She scrambled out of the corner on her hands and knees, too close to the still hot coals. She might have skittered past him in a larger room but he dropped to his knees with a hard thud and latched onto an ankle.

"Stop! Stop!" she yelled at him. He yanked her back hard, skirts hiking up around her knees. He forced them upward, drawing another screech from her. She tried to turn around and push him off, but he held her firm.

"Don't pretend you didn't like it," he growled angrily. He yanked at her drawers, pulling them downward and revealing a pretty, pale bottom. "You fuckin' loved it."

She tried to move away from him but he pressed his hand to her back, holding her down. A cry escaped her as he smacked the belt down on her bottom.

"Don't fuckin' lie to me," he said, smacking her again with the belt.

"I'm not lying!" she screeched. She scrambled but he held her firm.

"Yes, you fuckin' are!" he shouted. He brought the belt down again, stinging her bottom. "You coulda left." He hit her again. "But you didn't."

"Stop!" she cried.

"'N now you're lyin'!" his voice cracked. "You're fuckin' lyin' to me."

A tearless sobbed erupted from him and he hit her three more time, weakened movements, all his energy escaping him. He fell backwards, falling back onto the floor and she scrambled to her feet.

"You don't hate me, darlin'," he said. "You can't. Why you lyin'ta me? Why you wan' hurt me so bad?"

She got up, pulling up her drawers and yanking her skirts down, tears falling down her flushed cheeks. She looked at him, terrible, painful hatred shining in her eyes.

 _She felt somethin' for me once,_ he thought.  _I know she did._

"I am hurting you?" she spat, lips trembling. She got up on shaky legs. She let out a bitter laugh. He looked up at her. "I showed up and you had a woman in your lap. Your hand up her skirt.  _I'm_ hurting  _you_?"

He blinked. She moved toward the door, wiping her nose and shaking her head.

"I do hate you," she said opening the door. "I do."

He got up to his feet as she stepped out into the little clearing. His brain hurt.

"You didn't then!" he called after her. "You didn't then! Why now?"

"Because it's your Goddamn fault!" she screeched. He broke off, simply staring at her. "All you had to do was keep your word!" she yelled, voice breaking. "All you had to do was come after me and you  _didn't!"_

She stared at him from across the clearing, big doe eyes full to the brim with tears. She balled her scarf together in her hands.

"You left me," she added. A fat tear dribbled from her eye, falling down her flushed skin. "I went out every night. I walked into the fields. I left my window open. I… I waited for you. And you didn't come."

He blinked.

"And for her?" she cried. She pointed vaguely to the south. He had the foolish thought to remind her Susanna was to the West. It disappeared quickly. "You abandon  _me_ for  _her._  Well damn you to hell, Anderson Lawson!"

She turned, collecting her skirts. She broke down into a fit of sobs as she began walking in the direction of the stream, clearly in discomfort from her whipping.

His feet carried him forward but he hardly remembered moving. He could not feel his legs, yet they were as heavy as stone. He reached out and wrapped his hand around her elbow.

"Release me, you beast," she cried, not feebly striking at his chest, but swinging wildly for his face. He caught her wrist and held her still, looking over her tear stained face with wild blue eyes.

"I was doin' what was right. I was tryin'ta do the right fuckin' thing!" he shouted.

"Did you laugh!" she continued hysterically. "Did you laugh with your friends and whores about the stupid Yankee girl? How you made her think you loved her? How she debased herself for you and… and made her enjoy it… and –"

"This what you want?" he asked, grabbing her by the arms and shaking her violently. "You want this? You're livin' in a hovel in the mountains with a madman huntin' us. I killed you a fuckin' squirrel to eat, you haven't changed your dress in days. That's the life I can give you. This aint the life you want!"

"I am so tired of men telling me what I want!" she shouted, slamming her fists into his chest with as much force as his hands on her elbows would allow.

"It was for the best. I did it 'cause it's what's best for you."

"And I'm telling you now that's my decision to make!" she screamed. He blinked. He panted. His shoulders heaved.

He yanked her toward him hard. He kissed her and he kissed her hard. Painfully. His hands gripped her so tightly, her skinned turned black and blue beneath his fingertips. She pressed her hands to chest and tried to push him away, but her attempts were laughable. He forced them to the ground and they landed hard. The wind was knocked out of her but he did not notice. He lowered his lips back to hers.

 _She belongs to you,_ his mind hummed. His hands grabbed at her skirts, jerking them upward.  _She's yours. Take her._

"Stop," she breathed, oxygen returning to her lungs. She pushed at his face. He moved his hand away from her clawing nail. His cheek was ripped open and he pushed down on her shoulders. His hand yanked at her underclothes. "I don't want to."

"Yes you do," he breathed. "No more lyin'."

Her nails cut into the soft flesh of his neck cruelly and he growled. He seized her wrists and slammed them into the hard earth above her head. She ceased her struggles momentarily, breathing hard.

"That's right, darlin'," he said.

"Stop," she said. She tried to buck him off her. She renewed the struggle to free her arms. He leaned downward, placing his mouth to hers, greedily seeking her tongue with his. She tried to bite him and he chuckled. Then he realized she had. He tasted copper. His lips grew warm and wet. "You're an animal."

"I aint the one bitin'," he grinned, teeth stained with his blood.

He lowered himself, pressing his body to her. He pressed a hand to her lips and tilted her head back, baring her throat to his bloody kiss. He closed his teeth around her skin. He felt her tremor. Felt her try and shy away. But he removed his teeth after a hard, playful nibble and licked the skin, offer what salve he could.

He thrust into her with a violent thrust. Her fingers flared outward and she threw her head back, a cry of agony and ecstasy leaving her lips. He groaned against the skin of her neck. He dragged his teeth along the soft, vulnerable skin.

"Beast," she panted. "Monster."

But her words turned to moans.

Her thighs wrapped around his middle in a vice like grip, her legs tangled, keeping him locked in place. He released her wrists, awaiting the barrage of blows that her fists were to land. Cool hands pressed to hot skin. His face was brought from her neck and their lips were once more pressed together. She bit down on his lip again. She dragged it between her teeth, raking the soft flesh, leaving beads of blood in its wake. He nails clawed at the back of his neck. With each painful sinking of her nails into his flesh or the piercing bite of her teeth he thrust harder, slamming her soft body hard into the ground.

"Arabella," he breathed against her lips, stained red with his blood. She let out a cry as his thrusts continued cruelly. Her face grimaced with pain but she bucked against him. Her hands held his face, pulling downward at his cheeks. "You're mine."

She looked up into his eyes. Ecstasy and pain vied for dominance on her face. He thrust hard, he grabbed her chin.

" _Say it,"_ he gritted out, nose pressed to her cheek, lips brushing her skin.

"I'm yours," she wailed, eyes closed and tears falling down her temples. "Yours. Always."

The sound that left him with part growl, part purr. He stuck out his tongue, licking the side of her face, relishing the salty taste of tears. Her hands went to his hair. Her fingers threaded through the think blond locks and balled into fists. He groaned as she pulled, yanking his head backward.

" _Say it._ "

"Always," he growled. He pulled his head forward once more and lowered his face. They kissed and their teeth mashed together. He opened his mouth wide, wanting,  _needing,_ to consume her. He couldn't fuck her hard enough. He felt his completion nearing and continued his brutal attack and when he saw white behind his eyes and his brain went empty, his body humming and pulsing, skin covered with the warm sensation of pins and needles, he buried himself inside of her, groaning against her cheek, his hand with a bruising rip to her chin.

They lay in the dirt, covered in sweat and bruises, smears of blood across their lips and along Frank's neck. A bird chirped, eyeing the strange, panting couple curiously from below. Anderson stared upward, eyes focused on the blue just past the canopy of green. Blood still oozed from the little wound on his tongue. His heart pounded.

"I gave you a chance," he finally spoke. A long time had passed. He swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbled beneath the noose of raised skin around his throat. His gaze remained on the sky above. Arabella did not turn to look at him. "When this over… you're stayin' with me."

There was a long pause but it did not matter. He did not need a response. She'd asked for it. She was getting it.

"Forever?"

Her voice was soft, tired.

"Forever."

"Alright then."

A soft breeze rolled through and the birds chirped happily above them.


	25. 25

25

Arabella looked up from her dinner to smile at Anderson. He hummed happily as he continued to whittle the little block of wood he had found in the woods.

"Be good'n 'n get the bottle, darlin'," he asked between hummed versed. She looked to the bottle, just out of his reach, and he continued whittling.

"You be a good'n," she replied with a sarcastically. He looked up in annoyance and jammed the knife in her direction.

"You're my girl. You'll do as I say. Now git," he said, motioning to the bottle with his knife.

"I will not," she said in some outrage. "I am no longer your prisoner. Get it yourself."

"I don't think you much know how this is supposed to work," he said. "I tell you to do somethin' you do it. I'm getting' the food, I'm cookin', which is on you, woman. 'N I protect you. Put a roof over your head. Now get the goddam bottle."

The swear might have made his words harsh were he speaking with a crueler tone, but his voice was light, teasing, but she knew at the same time his words were not in jest.

"No," she said, putting her plate to the side and crossing her arms. She felt as though this was a pivotal moment. His eyes narrowed.

"Yes."

She lifted her chin. "No."

He put the knife and the little block of wood down.

"Woman."

"Man," she replied. Her face turned more anxious as he began to crawl toward her. "Anderson, no, I am too sore. Anderson. Please."

Her pushed her down, settling on top of her and she erupted into a fit of giggles when it became clear he was not coming to punish her for her obstinacy. He held himself above her and held up a finger. He began to scold her, but she smiled up at him stupidly. He never let the sternness drop from his face.

"A woman does what she's told," he lectured. "It's in the bible. A wife obeys her husband."

"I am not your wife," she laughed, running her hands through his hair, knocking the hat from his head. He gripped her chin. He held himself up with one elbow.

"You wan'be?" he asked. Her smile slowly slipped from her face. Her stared into his eyes, unable to tell if he was serious. "I can steal you a ring. Real nice."

"Are… are you serious?" she asked. He gave a half smile.

"Bit of a joke, proposal comin' from me," he said. There was a glimmer of embarrassment in his eyes. "I wan'n make you mine. Proper. 'For the law. 'for God."

She felt her eyes well up with tears and she rolled her lips inward, pressing them together.

"'N then you really can't leave me," he added. "Or you'll go to your papist hell."

She giggled and tears rolled down her temples. He gently wiped away the tears from her cheeks. "Y'aint supposed to be sad."

"I'm not sad." Her throat constricted. "I'm happy."

"Yeah?" he asked softly. She touched his cheeks, looking over his face.

"I shouldn't love you like I do," she whispered. His lips parted and his head dipped. Their lips meant very softly. They simply kept their faces pressed together, lips touching. He pulled back and their lips parted, but only just. Gently his fingers plucked at the buttons of her blouse. Their lips never left each other's. His hands ghosted over her shoulders as he gently removed the blouse. She tugged at his belt and he slipped her out of her skirt.

"Arabella," he breathed against her mouth. A ghost of a moan left her and the kiss deepened. Her drawers were pulled down and she kicked them off. She shoved at his trousers and shorts. He paused before entering her, pressing his forehead to hers and rolling his shoulders. A shudder ripped through him and she ran her hands down his back, feeling the muscles ripple beneath his hot skin. She decided to stop caring whether or not it was right to love him. She did and it rushed over her in a violent wave. Damn what others might think of him. Damn what they thought of her. It was wrong, it was twisted, and it was sinful, but there was nothing she wanted more.

His eyes were screwed shut and his forehead rolled against hers in a kind of nuzzle.

"I love you," he whispered. She almost could not hear it. Squeezed his eyes shut. He looked like he was in pain. She gently cupped the sides of his neck and pushed him back. His eyes remained closed and his face crumpled. His lower lip trembled and to her utter amazement he started to cry. Fat tear drops fell to her face. One landed on her lip. One warmed her cheek. He let himself drop down. His face went to her neck. Her skin turned warm and wet.

"Anderson," she whispered, wrapping him in her arms. A sort of moan left him. She'd heard that sound once before. It was the sound that left her father when he read the words that communicated her brother's death. She tightened her hold on him, pressing her hand to the back of his hand and stroking his mess of blond hair. She was reminded of the hugs she had received from her mother. Her father. Her brothers, first Matthew, then Jonathan, both now gone from the world. She'd never hug her brothers again. She wondered how long it had been since he had someone to hold him. Just to have someone to hold him and love him. Someone to love him unconditionally. Everyone deserved to have someone to love you more than they loved themselves.

"You're the sweetest thing this god forsaken world has'ta offer," he said against her shoulder. "'N I done hurt you so bad."

"I forgive you," she whispered. She lifted his face up despite his protests. He tried to shield his face from hers, tear stained, salty fluid staining his dusty cheeks. His eyes fluttered open. Her lips parted. They looked almost green. "Anderson," she smiled, stroking the tears from his cheeks. "I forgive you."

"I aint… I aint never gon'be the man you deserve," he told her and then whispered, "But I'll try 'n be. After this we'll… we'll go where you wan'go. We'll do what you wan'do. I'll try 'n be what you want. I just wan'be with you."

"I want Anderson Lawson," she told him. He nodded. He sniffed hard and darted out a tongue to lick the linger tears from his lips. "I fell in love with Anderson Lawson." She smiled, slicking his hair back. She whispered, "But I fell in love with Frank Lawson too."

A breath left him. A kind of laugh, kind of sob. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers. She didn't need him to say it again. She knew what he felt. She knew how hard it was for him to say. Their lips weaved as he slid into her, slow but steady, with controlled, trembling force. His hips moved slowly, she tightened her hold to him. His chest pressed to her breasts, their hearts pounding against the other's flesh. Her legs wound around hers, and she dragged the nail of her big toe up his calf. A shudder ripped through him and he climaxed atop of her. She smiled as he fell against her. She trailed her finger nails over the back of neck, trailing it down the top of his spine. He kept most of his weight off of her, but he relaxed against her, breathing beginning to slow.

He rolled onto his back and brought her with him, switching their positions. Now he trailed his fingertips over her spine. She kissed a darkened, purple circle on his chest. She trailed her finger over a deep, white scar in his middle. His hand lowered and he ghosted his hand over her bottom, but oddly enough, there was nothing at all sexual about it.

"You get filled up, I'll take care right," he murmured. She looked up with a little frown. "If we go'n kill the rabbit," he clarified. Her frowned deepened. "Get you 'n the family way."

"Oh," she said and touched her belly. She gazed at the still healing belly. It was a little sore.

"I want to have children," she mused.

"Children?" he asked. "Plural?"

She gave a breathy laugh and scratched his stubbly cheek.

"Plural," she smiled.

"Goddamn," he said. He gazed up the ceiling, a look of panic in his eyes. She winced as she sat up. Her body was littered with bruised. He looked like he had been attacked by a very vicious racoon.

"You will make a fine father," she comforted him, trailing a scratch on his neck.

"How you know?" he asked softly.

"Because you'll have to," she answered simply. He stared at her a moment.

"Darlin'?" he murmured tenderly. She touched his chest.

"Anderson?" she whispered. His eyebrows elevated and he looked to her earnestly, eyes blue once more, twinkling sincerely. She waited, heart pounding.

"Go get me the Goddamn bottle."

The sound of her hand colliding with his chest was matched only by the sound of his bark of pain and her eruption of laughter.

* * *

 

Susanna let the smile drop from her lips as the door closed and she pushed herself up from the bed. She moved over to the water basin in the corner and submerged her hands into the cold water. She took hold of the rag with white knuckles and yanked it dripping from the bowl, letting the water pour around the edge of the basin and drip onto the floor. She scrubbed at her thighs, washing away the sweat and fluids that covered her raw skin.

One more. Maybe two. Then you can sleep.

She heard a knock on her door and looked up at the ceiling. She continued scrubbing at herself. There was another knock, impatient and loud.

"Hold your horses there!" she called out in annoyance. "Goddamn fuckin' animals," she murmured and tossed the rag down in the basin. She retrieved her robe and through it over her shoulders. It had been a gift from Frank. Fine fabric. Not something a whore in a little desert town like this would wear. She felt an ache in her chest. She moved over to the door slowly. She enjoyed the times between customers when things were quiet. She opened the door and let her eyes scan over the man before her. She let out a bitter laugh and looked back up to a bright gaze. "I don't service no Yankees," she told him. "You best get on down the hall to Amy."

She tried to shut the door but he reached up, grabbed the top corner of the door. His eyes raked over her, but it was decidedly less predatory than she was sued to.

"But I had my heart set on you," he answered, the wooden, boring words of a northerner coming from his lips. He had a bit of a lisp, but when he smiled, he parted his lips to show a mouth lacking a significant number of teeth. She examined them a moment, trying to discern if it was rot that had done them in. His remaining teeth were white.

"I had my fair share of Yankee's during the war," she informed him coldly, letting her eyes rake over the blue of his coat, the forager cap on his head. His smile faltered and he took his hat from his head.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, his eyes pinning hers with a look of genuine remorse. She paused a moment and then glanced back at her bed.

"A dollar," she said, looking back at him. "On account a you being a northerner."

She stepped to the side and he stepped on in.

"Have I seen you somewheres?" she asked. There was something familiar about him, something she knew she should recognize, but in her short time on this earth, men's faces now seemed to blur together. She hardly even saw detail anymore.

"Don't think so," he answered, sitting on the bed. He tossed his hat to the side. "I promise it wasn't during the war."

"Where did you fight?" she asked.

"Did most of my fighting in the early years. Virginia and North Carolina."

"You didn't go through Mississippi?" she asked. He shook his head slowly.

"I wasn't fighting during the final march." He tapped his lips where the teeth were missing. "I was laid up in the hospital that last year."

She nodded and began to walk toward him.

"What do you want?" she asked, spreading her thighs to straddle him. She ran her hands through his hair, tilting his head back, and he smiled at her. She was struck with another rush of familiarity and it left her feeling uneasy. "You sure you weren't in Mississippi?"

"I'll swear on a bible if you have one," he offered. She shook her head. His hands touched her waist over the robe and he squeezed gently. "If I was, I'd a taken you back north my wife," he added and she was not sure how to take it. "Sweet Jesus, you're beautiful."

Her lips twitched upward. He leaned forward and rested his face against her breasts. She felt a sting of fear when he wrapped an arm around her waist and rolled her onto her back, but his motion was fluid and gentle and he settled over her.

"What's your name?" he asked, petting her cheek.

"Susanna," she answered.

"Susanna," he murmured and smiled. "You're too pretty to be out here."

She swallowed.

"You're just a child," he added.

"I'm not a child," she answered. He gently parted her robe, looking over her tenderly. "You… if you want to take your time it'll be more than a dollar." It was far more than she charged as it was but he was a Yankee after all.

"How does a girl like you not get snatched up?" he asked, tilting his head and trailing a fingertip over a nipple. She rolled her lips together.

"Just… just get on with it," she said with an aching throat.

"Oh," he breathed. "You've been hurt. Haven't you?"

"Just, just get to it – "

"I'm looking for Frank, beautiful."

She started, suddenly aware of who it was in her bed. She tried to jump up but he nudged her down gently.

"Shh, shhh. Calm down," he murmured. "And no calling for help."

His hand pressed down on her collar bone. Images flooded her brain, the feel of a Yankee soldier's hand around her throat, searing pain and terror. She could still hear them all laughing.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want," he said. "I just want to know where Frank went."

She pinched her lips together. His hand left her chest and he stroked her hair gently. His knuckles stroked her cheek.

"I don't know where they went," she lied. His lips curved upward and he tilted his head.

"They?" he asked. She closed her eyes.

"He and that Yankee bitch," she gritted out, hatred seizing her heart.

"Ah," he said. Her eyes opened and she saw him looking off to the side, eyes racing with thought. "Interesting."

She stared at him. She could feel Frank's hands on her body, his gentle touch, his lips, the warmth of him all around her, the sound of his voice as he whispered Arabella's name in her ear.

"They went to the mountains," she spoke over the lump in her throat. "The two of them. Alone. Waiting on you."

"Which mountains?" he asked and she told him. He gave a soft smile and trailed his fingertips over her cheek. Immediately she regretted her words. Frank had never told her he loved her, he never made her a promise he wouldn't keep. It wasn't his fault he didn't love her, no matter how much she loved him. She felt tears come to her eyes but she blinked them away.

"Thank you, Susanna," he whispered. She nodded. When he left she'd got to Blackjack and tell him. She'd let him know so he might go and warn them. His hand moved lower and he looked over her body appreciatively. "And I am truly sorry for what my countrymen did to you. Very truly. Believe me that not all Northern men would commit an act of such repulsive violence against a woman."

She swallowed thickly and put a smile on her face that looked quite genuine.

"I'd still like that dollar," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. He shook his head sadly.

"No," he murmured. His hand moved down her jaw and slowly circled around her throat. "I'd not do that to my wife."

"You have a wife?"

"I do. She died," he told her. "She died while I wasted away at a rebel prisoner of war camp."

His hand tightened around her throat and she panic gripped her heart with a cold, iron clad grip.

"You look like her," he whispered.

"Sir –"

His hand tightened and his face pinched. Her hands clawed at his wrists. He moved over to straddle her. His second hand joined his first and her hands reached for his face. A nail caught his cheek but he yanked his head back. She tried to dig away at his hands but he was unmoved. She could not even beg. Her legs flailed. She tried to kick something, to alert anyone of her plight. Her face turned purple and her eyes bulged. She tried to make a noise but her burning lungs held no oxygen. The face above her was red. A vein bulged in his forehead. His nose was crinkled. His eyes were wide with crazed excitement. It was the last thing she would ever see and as her vision blurred and soon turned black, she prayed that her foolish, hateful words would not be the death of Frank Lawson or the woman he loved.

Archie very gently pulled Susanna's robe together, affording her a dignity in death she had never possessed in life. He crossed himself and kissed her forehead gently, smoothing out her tussle of pretty curls. He draped a blanket over her before gently closing her eyes. He had not been surprised to show up at Tularosa to find Frank gone. It would not have made sense for him to remain where everyone knew he liked to make home, even if he had not known Archie was coming for him. But this new development was quite interesting. He took out a little cigar and lit it was a strike of the match against the wall. He had an inkling Susanna would know something about his whereabouts. He knew from past experiences and gossip that Frank had been sweet on a whore. He knew, one way or the other, he would be getting the information he needed.

"Miss Dupont," he said softly, shaking his head and blowing out a mouthful of smoke. He clicked his tongue together and rose from the bed. He patted his pockets and pulled out a silver dollar. Gently, he took hold of Susanna's hand and placed the cool silver into her palm. Gently he rolled her fingers around it and pressed it to her chest. He let out a sigh. She really was quite beautiful. It was a shame.

He slipped out of the door and wrapped a piece of cloth around the door handle. Closed for business. He glanced down the hall, pleased to find it empty. He moved in the opposite direction of the stairs, toward the window he had crawled into. He was not foolish enough to try and walk through the front door undetected. He checked his surroundings once more and climbed through the opening in the wall. He jumped down onto the ledge, down to the lower roof, and then down to the dirt where Abner and Johnse waited with their horses.

"Sacramento Mountains," he said.

"She gon' talk?" Johnse asked.

"No," Archie responded. He looked over his shoulder. "Let's get a move on then. They know we're coming."

"They?" Johnse asked.

"She's with him."

"Told you we should have killed her too," Abner said weakly.

"Shut it, both of you," he snapped. "Before we're found out, let's go."

They mounted their horses and set off for the east, none aware of the man standing in the shadows, watching them slowly trot away.


	26. 26

26

 

It had been too long. Someone should have come upon them by now. Even if Blackjack and John had been unable to warn them, Roper should have made an appearance by now.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

He looked over at Arabella. She was skinning the squirrel as he taught her, doing a fine job.

 

“Something just aint right,” he said. He had told her of his plan a few days prior. “Why aint he here yet?”

 

She paused to think, her own worry now coming to her face.

 

“He is not likely to give up,” Arabella mused.

 

“Blackjack should o’ been here by now,” he said. “John…”

 

He looked to the window.

 

“I’m gon’do a bit o’ scoutin’.”

 

“I will join you,” she began and he shook his head.

 

“No y’aint,” he answered. “Stay here.

 

“Do you really believe that separating is our best course of action?” she asked. “What happens if you die and Roper finds me here alone? What then?”

 

She had gotten to her feet and stared at him. Her brown eyes were burning with stubborn grimness and he cursed softly.

 

“Get’cha gun,” he said brusquely and went to the door. He stopped her before they went out the door, placing a kiss to her mouth and letting his hands drop to her bottom. She gave him a loving smile and he scowled, patting her bottom and nudging her out the door with a grunt. She waited for him to close the door and they walked off to the west.

 

“Where do you think they could be?” she asked and he halted them. He turned with a small smile and a glimmer in his eyes.

 

“Darlin’, this whole scoutin’ thing means you gotta be a bit quiet. Y’understand?”

 

She blushed and nodded.

 

“Now I’m gon’ teach’ye, but you gotta be quiet.”

 

“I will be,” she vowed.”

 

And in the next three or four days she did get quite good at it. The real test would be if anyone ever showed up. But she learned the tracks quickly, was able to tell if an animal had laid in place and even knew where the best place for traps would be. She was rather proud, though equally as saddened, when he came back one night with a mess of rabbit hanging from the wire, killed in each place she instructed him to build a trap.

 

She was healing well. She felt little pain and soon she would be good as new. Often, she would try and keep it hidden. There was shame in her eyes when she caught him looking at it. He put an end to it easily enough. A soft kiss to her lower belly, a press of his face to her soft skin. He’d never found a woman more beautiful and he told her, as he gently ran his fingertips over the healing skin, that when she was all stretched from babies, he’d still love her body.

 

“I seen women all marked up from little’ns,” he said. “Just more battle scars.”

 

It was a quiet day when they set off to scout for the last time. Birds were chirping and the sky was blue. A few fluffy clouds dotted the sky white and the leaves still green on the trees. Arabella lead the way as she always did, fighting the urge to hum along to Dixie with him. One night, as he watched her from their little bedroll, stirring the rabbitt stew she was making for them, he heard the soft little hum make its way to his ears. She looked up, realized what she was doing, and had not spoken to him the rest of the night, too angry with his gentle teasing. Despite the refusal to speak, she’d clawed at his back and moaned in his ear all the same.

 

They descended the side of a hill, the earth softening and crumbling beneath their feet. He caught onto a tree branch, her hands grabbing onto one of his thighs, and they slid to the flatter ground slowly. He checked to make sure she was well and they moved on, taking the same route and circling around the camp.

 

“What is this?” she asked softly, crouching down in the wet leaves and muck. She looked up at him as he bent down beside her.

 

“Horse,” he muttered, ears ringing. She looked at him, suddenly alert. Her head moved from side to side in surprise, but there was no noise, no movement.

 

“Who could ride their horse through this?” she asked, motioning to their surroundings. He did not know. It made little sense. It was far too easy for the earth to crumble and to be left with a horse with a snapped leg and a bullet in its head. He heard no whimpering horse. He had heard no gunshots.

 

His ears buzzed. He scratched beneath his eye with the back of his thumb.

 

“He’s here,” he whispered. Arabella went to move but he reached out, seizing her wrist and keeping her low. She remained silent and let him think. “Follow me, stay low. No speaking.”

 

She was silent as he turned, moving through the brush on bent knees. He slowly unholstered his gun. When he looked back, she had done the same.

 

They scaled up the side of the hill the way they came. He reached down and they both gripped the other’s wrist. She needed very little help, but he could not risk her falling and hurting herself now.

 

They crept along the woods, as silent as could be. He halted when he heard the chatter. He heard shouting. He heard horses.

 

_That’s more than three men._

 

The thought sent a bolt of dread through him. His blood ran cold and his face felt numb. He inched forward, painfully slowly, but silent as a mouse. He felt her settle down beside him as he gazed out at the clearing their little home rested in. She was stunned to silence. Neither said a word. There had to have been fifteen men standing in the clearing. Many more beginning to comb the woods.

 

“You bastard,” he whispered.

 

He watched the blue coats come surging through from the tree line, a feeling of dread like he had never experienced before in his life taking hold of him. It was how it was always going to end. He only wished he had a bit more time with her. He wished he had treated her better. 

 

"We- we have to go," she whispered, tugging on his arm. "Anderson, we can still get to the horses."

 

He smiled softly. He turned his blue gaze back at her. 

 

"I do love you something fierce," he murmured. Her little face crinkled. "We give up now 'n you won't get hurt."

 

He put his hands on her waist and gently guided her toward him. She fell from the balls of her feet to her knees as he did so. The soldiers shouted around them, getting closer. It wouldn't be long until they were discovered.

 

"Anderson -"

 

"You remember me, darlin'," he whispered. He brushed a strand of hair from her face. 

 

"Anderson, no-" she pleaded. 

 

"More 'n I ever deserved, time I spent with you. Pray for my soul? And don't you come to the hangin'. I don't want you to see it. I wan’ you to remember me like I am. Not swingin’ from a rope."

 

"Anderson -" she cried between gritted teeth, grabbing him by the coat and trying to pull him to his feet. He stood, but could not be uprooted further.

 

“Was a time I’d a fought my way outa here guns blazin’, even with you by my side.”

 

He shook his head and she stared at him with disbelief.

 

"It's funny," he murmured, standing in spot. He ran his knuckles over her cheek. "I ain't ready to die no more."

 

He heard the Yankees coming through the woods.

 

“You go on back to Rhode Island. Find you a good man. One that deserves you,” he said.

 

“Anderson,” she wept, clutching on to him. He cupped her face with his hands.

 

“My sweet Yankee,” he whispered. He shook his head. “There aint no winnin’ this fight.”

 

As if on cue he was grabbed by the shoulders and ripped away from Arabella. She screamed and tried to free him, but soon a strong blue arm was wrapped around her middle, pulling her away from him.

 

He was pressed down to the ground on his stomach, hands forced behind his back, but he put up no resistance. He watched as she fought, desperately trying to break from her captor’s hold.

 

“Stop fightin’ darling,” he got out. A bony knee now pressed hard into his back. His face was pressed into the dirt and he fought the urge to sneeze. “Arabella, you’re just gon’ get yourself hurt.”

 

“Anderson!” she cried. He felt his heart break.

 

“Darlin’,” he said desperately. He watched with widening eyes as the butt of the rifle was raised high. Before he could see I crash down on her fragile skull, sending her unconscious body plummeting to the hard dirt floor like a sack of rock, he felt an explosion of pain behind his eyes, his vision went white, and then, he was left in darkness.

 

* * *

Anderson woke up in a duty jail in Sante Fe. A clamor had arisen outside. Some guards were shouting. A few women were screaming. Before he opened his eyes he thought it was Arabella. He opened his eyes, he shot straight up, and he found himself alone.

 

“Arabella,” he whispered as he looked around the cell. He was alone in his barred room, but beside him was another cell, housing three men, all staring at him with wonder.

 

“It true what they say?” the younger of the three asked. Anderson grimaced and dabbed at his forehead.

 

“What that be?” he grunted.

 

“They’s sayin’ you’re Friendly Frank. _The_ Friendly Frank.”

 

“Lawson, the last name be,” a fat man with no teeth said. Anderson looked at them a few moments before lowering his eyes. He nodded and tried to stretched out his neck.

 

“Yeah,” he sighed. “That’s me.”

 

“Well Goddamn, it’s an honor, sir,” the third one now spoke, a skinny rail of a man with a high voice. “You, I know you don’t, but you don’t remember me, I’m sure, but not three years ago, you bout near bashed out all my teeth at a bar. Took my two cigars and two dollars too.”

 

He seemed far too happy for the even to have occurred but when Anderson looked at him, his eyes were shining earnestly.

 

“Mighty sorry ‘bout that,” he said and got to his feet.

 

“It’s not true what they’re sayin’… is it, sir?” the boy asked. “You didn’t take and rape that lady?”

 

Frank slid his arms through the bars, listening to the clamor of people outside. He touched the fabric of her scarf. He held it to his nose. Oh, she had been so sweet the day he met her on that train. Seemed like a million years ago now. In reality, hardly a couple of months.

 

“Friendly Frank, sir?”

 

He looked off toward the door, his eyes losing focus. The three men left him be for near to an hour, pacing in their own cell, glancing toward him with the anxious desire to ask him a question, but in the end no question was ever posed. He picked at his nails as he leaned against the cell, waiting for the sheriff to come in so he could learn his fate. He’d rather hoped the soldiers would have just put a bullet in his head.

 

Finally, the door swung open and a stepped through the door. One turned to heave a slew of insults into the crowed and slammed the door shut, locking it tightly. He had on a large hat, had a large mustache, bigger sideburns, and sounded like he’d spent most of his life in the west. He was dressed in dusty clothing, a star on his chest indicating he was the law. He jerked a thumb toward the outside window.

 

“Your fault, all that mess,” he informed Anderson. “People coming around for miles after hearing Friendly Frank Lawson’s been caught. Goddamn them for doing it that way too.”

 

He went to his desk and grabbed a paper. He slid it to the bars and Anderson took it from him.

 

 _Army needed to subdue outlaw and captured woman_.

 

“You’re a goddamned hero to half the country.”

 

He grunted out a chuckle.

 

“Where is she?” he asked softly, folding the paper in his hands, once more hanging out of the bars.

 

“Not sure,” the man answered. Anderson nodded but he was not entirely sure if he was telling the truth. “Judge’ll be here in a few weeks. Probably be hangin’ shortly after that. Might get a jury if you’re lucky. Them idiots weren’t screaming, you’d hear them building the gallows.”

 

“Guess they want’n do the jobs themselves,” he said. The man snorted and took the paper back. He plopped himself down at his desk and put his boots up.

 

“They’re screamin’ from the rooftops to let you go,” the sheriff replied. “The women all think it’s romantic. The men think you’re a goddamned hero. Poor man getting a lady of her stature to run off with him. Giving too many of us home.” The man actually chuckled.

 

“Romantic?”

 

“People saying she ran off with you. Soldiers that brought you in, well one had a bit too much to drink, whispered in his whore’s ear, and now the town knows. How that Yankee lady was kicking and screaming to get to you before they whisked her off. Back East I think. Wasn’t put on the train of her own free will, what I heard tell of…”

 

Anderson nodded. His chest burned but he knew it was for the best. She didn’t need to see it. His hanging. Still. Part of him wanted her to be there. He didn’t want to die alone.

 

“I love her,” Anderson smiled at the sheriff. “She loves me too, you know. She was gon’ stay with me.”

 

The sheriff looked quizzical. The three men were suddenly pressed to the bars their cells shared, looking at him with wide eyed excitement.

 

“She run off with you then? Like the papers said?”

 

“What uh…” Anderson began, ignoring the three men in the cell beside him. “What’s the trial for ‘xactly?”

 

“All your crimes, think, but not many wan’ come forward. Specially now. Too scared or too goddamned awe struck. Most specifically though, they’re going to try you for the rape ‘n stealing of that girl and the murder of her brother.”

 

“I didn’t kill her brother,” he denied immediately, angrily. The sheriff looked back at him.

 

“Maybe you didn’t. And maybe you loved that girl. But we have witnesses that says that isn’t true.”

 

“Witnesses?” he asked.

 

“Just heard witnesses.”

 

Anderson stepped back from the bars.

 

“And uh… Arabella… Miss Dupont. She’s gone East?”

 

“Left on the train three days ago, what I heard.”

 

Anderson slowly lowered himself back down to the ground. He laid flat on his back. The room was hot. He stared up at the ceiling, ears buzzing. Outside, he could hear the sound sawing wood.

* * *

 

Arabella got off of the train and ripped her arm from Thaddeus’. He let her go and she walked a good ten paces ahead of him, fuming. When he had picked her up at the outpost she had refused to go with him. When the soldier ordered they had written permission from her father to do so, it had been with force and the help of three soldiers that they shoved her in the wagon, hands and feet bound. When she was put on the train in Sante Fe she was relieved to find out it was only bringing them ten miles to the west.

 

“We’ll need to return for the trial,” Thaddeus had informed her as she scarfed down her meal. “Might we… Perhaps Arabella we may discuss the status of our engagement. You see… with your current situation your circumstances are quite helpless. But with your brothers dead –"

 

“Get out,” she said between gritted teeth. He paused in surprise and she gripped her steak knife. “Get out or Frank Lawson isn’t the only trial I will be attending.”

 

He had left her to walk about the train, only returning to escort her to her father’s hotel. If her father thought he could make her marry him he had another thing coming. She’d die first. She’d put a bade to her wrists and cut as deeply as she could before she vowed before God to love and obey this man.  

 

Still, when she saw her father was seized with affection she had forgotten briefly and ran toward him. She closed her eyes as she allowed him to hold her tightly, crying softly into her hair and telling her how he had missed her. Flat faced and handsome, her father stood tall, the eyes of Jonathon and the nose of Matthew, neatly combed gray hair resting a top his head. His suit was crisp and clean, his face clean shaven.

 

“Your mother cannot wait to see you,” he murmured as he released her.

 

“Papa –”

 

“Go and bathe,” he said. “We will have dinner in my suite. I’ll have a dress sent up for you.”

 

She fell silent and nodded slowly.

 

“And then we can talk about if you are strong enough… to face him again in court.”

 

She thought of his words as she bathed. Mused over the look on his face, what Thaddeus had said in the train.

 

“What do I do,” she whispered to herself. “How can I help him?”

 

_Lie._

 

He looked at the dirty water she now sat it. She raised up a leg. She examined the bruises on her legs. From him, from running through the woods, from fighting the soldiers… she didn’t know at this point. It wasn’t right to love him. She didn’t care.

 

_Lie, Arabella, all you have to do is lie._

 

* * *

 

**_Two weeks later_ **

He dreamt of Arabella. He dreamt of a house by the lakes in Minnesota and handsome sons and beautiful daughters. Sleep came easily. The sheriff had procured him a bottle of whiskey. One he finished within an hour. When he awoke, he emptied what was left in his stomach out onto wooden floor of his cell, groaning as his head throbbed and the world spun.

 

“Fuck me,” he breathed. He felt the nausea build once more. He shoved his fingers into his mouth and he threw up again.

 

“Come on!” the sheriff yelled in disgust, but another wave of heaves rocked him and soon his stomach was empty. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and spit. Frank’s eyes surveyed the rooms. His eyes were bloodshot and each movement hurt.

 

“She really gone,” he whispered.

 

A small part of him was stunned. He had wanted her to go. He had already planned his angry tirade when she walked through the door. But now, knowing she was gone, so out of reach, his heart, already cracked and aching, seemed to shatter in his chest, leaving nothing but a painful, oozing hole.

 

“What was that?” the sheriff asked. “’Ay! Billy. The bucket!”

 

“Oh, darlin’,” he breathed. “Think on me.”

 

The boy was let in to mop up as Anderson laid against the wall in a daze. He was still nauseas, now painfully hungry, and his head throbbed. He clutched at her scarf. He smiled to himself as he imagined her on the train headed home. It brought him back to the day he met her.

 

An hour passed before the door opened and a soldier stepped inside.

 

“Ready to move him, sir,” the soldier told the sheriff.

 

Anderson looked at the soldier. A young man. Too young to have fought in the war. The sheriff came over with a bundle of keys. He was surrounded by soldiers as he stepped out into the warm morning air. The sun was low in the sky but he was met with a roar of cheers. A smile came to his tired face. He wondered how many people cheering for him now he had robbed or beaten in the past.

 

“Pleasure, ma’am,” he said when a woman shouted out her glee or being able to meet him. She nearly fainted as he walked by.

 

“Give them Yankees hell,” a southern man called, trying to shove a soldier out of his way. Anderson laughed as he looked around. If he had to go out, he wasn’t so upset it had to be like this. Inside, he could only hope the Judge was as pleased to see him.

 

* * *

The witnesses that came forward to speak spoke only on his smaller crimes. Cheating at cards, snatching wallets, watches, the like. They couldn’t even get someone who wanted to accuse him of stealing a cow, and he’d taken a fair number of cattle in his time. It would be the kidnapping that he’d be hung for. The kidnapping and the rape. He closed his eyes as the word rattled around in his brain. _Rape._ Every time he heard the lawyer say it his head swirled. He felt ill.

 

His own lawyer was a goddamned fool. He could not have been a day over twenty-five. A smooth cheeked, wide eyed youth catching a case so big he could not dream of better. Reginald Gutthree would have his name in all the papers in the south-western territories. It would very likely even make its way back east.

 

 It didn’t take a law degree to see the man was making a mess of what little case he had. The only good he did was giving Anderson a chance to make good with the jury.

 

“You gon’ wan’ this,” Anderson said once, handing the lawyer his list of questions as he made his way to his podium. The man blushed, muttered to himself and walked back to Anderson to snatch the paper from his hand. A rumble of laughter wrung through the packed town hall. Jurors tried to smother smiles.

 

“You sure you’re a lawyer?” Anderson asked as he walked back from a cross examination. The laughter returned to the court room and the lawyer lowered his forehead to his hand as he began to scramble notes anxiously. “I think we got a bit of a mix up here, Judge. You see, this here’s Frank Lawson. I’m the Yankee Lawyer.”

 

The Judge did not find it funny, but the rest of those presence certainly did.

 

Things grew more serious about an hour into the proceedings. When the court turned to the issue of kidnapping and rape. A hush fell through the town hall, all anxious awaiting the testimony to come. All praying that Friendly Frank Lawson, the gentleman scoundrel, was not guilty of such horrific acts.

 

 _Rape,_ Anderson thought, eyes lowered to the desk in front of him as the Judge spoke briefly before giving the court a short recess. He swallowed thickly and looked up. Most refused to leave their spots in the room, even to get some much needed food. They dare not give up their spots.. _I really am sorry, Lord, but I’d do it again._

“Mr. Lawson,” Gutthree said. There was a thick sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “Will you take the stand when the times come?”

 

“If I don’t do I have any chance?”

 

Despite it being a rather sarcastic, rhetorical question, his lawyer answered grimly anyway. “I must say no, sir.”

 

“I’ll talk,” he agreed. His lawyer nodded and moved away from the room. He returned five minutes to one.

 

“Bring me any whiskey?” Anderson asked. His lawyer looked at him in surprise. Anderson chuckled and leaned back in his chair.

 

“Might I remind you that your very life is on the line, sir,” Gutthree said. Anderson looked at him.

 

“You don’t understand,” Anderson said. “A life without her, now that just aint worth livin’. My life’s in God’s hands. We’ll see what he’s got in store for me.”

 

Gutthree looked back to his notes and began to scribble.

 

The opposing lawyer entered the room and took his seat, smiling smugly over at Anderson. He kept his face forward, boring holes into the wall in front of him. How badly he wished he had his gun. Soon the chatter began to slow and the judge entered the room. Everyone not standing stood, save Anderson, who remained seated, gazing down at the table in front of him. As the judge took his seat, the room was completely silent.

 

Anderson heard a door open. Part of him just knew it was Archie. He couldn’t stand to turn around and find that arrogant, toothless grin staring back at him. Instead, he remained facing forward, trying to subdue his anger. He closed his eyes and thought about how soft Arabella’s hair was. How good she had smelled. He took the scarf and pressed it to his nose and breathed in deeply.

 

For the main case in question, the law had only three witnesses to call. No one else dare speak against Friendly Frank on such an issue. The likelihood he might escape and seek revenge was far too high. And what terrible revenge it would be. He was not surprised when the first witnessed called was Captain Archibald Roper, a veteran of the Civil War, serving honorably in the light infantry for close to four years, a survivor of Andersonville prison, and a brave man who did his best to rescue the frightened young woman from the clutches of the terrible monster, and lost his dear brother in the process. Anderson watched him enter, dressed neatly, his blue coat washed and fastened neatly, his hair combed and a tie around his neck.

  
“Mr. Roper,” the lawyer asked at one point during his questioning. Roper held his hand in his hands, squeezing it tightly, a look of sadness and worry etched across his features. “Did you see Mr. Lawson kill your brother?”

 

“I did,” he answered. “Raised his gun right up.” He raised a finger and his thumb, pointing out ahead of him. A tear dribbled down his cheek. “Shot him dead. A good boy my brother,” he told to the jury. “He was kind hearted. He was going to get married. He just wanted to do this good deed. He couldn’t imagine how scared his own sweetheart would have been. Poor Lucile, he just…”

 

“I know this is not easy, sir. Do you need a moment?”

 

Roper wiped at his eyes with his hat and shook his head.

 

“I am fine, sir, forgive me.”

 

“Did you see Mr. Lawson shoot Mr. Jonathan Dupont?”

 

“I did,” he answered. “A cruel look on his face. Evil in that man’s heart. He raised up the gun, just like he did my brother, and looked her right in the eye –”

 

“Who sir?”

 

“Oh, forgive me, sir, looked Miss Arabella right in the eye, shot him dead.”

 

“Do you have any idea why he did this?” the lawyer asked.

 

“He wanted to punish her, for leavin’ him you see.”

 

“How did you escape?”

 

“I tried to save her. I tried to stop him. But …”

 

The rest of his testimony was difficult to listen to. Anderson stewed in his seat, his skin burning red, his ears humming. All he wanted to do was jump from his table and throttle the man. Obviously, that was something that would not go over well with the jury. Even when Archibald slid from his chair he kept to character. He balled up his hat nervously and slid into the crowed, too timid to meet Anderson’s eyes.

 

“You look like you want to murder someone,” Gutthree said as he sat back down. He had done a poor job of poking holes in his story.

 

“I goddamn want to,” he answered harshly.

 

“Well, wipe that goddamn look of your face,” he responded. “You look like the very man I’m trying to convince them you aren’t.”

 

He settled down in his chair and ran his hands through his hair.

 

When he heard the next name listed off his head jerked up. He turned in his chair to lay eyes on him. The man had earned his hatred long before Anderson was ever able to lay eyes on him. When he found him now, his blood began to boil with even more hatred than he even felt for Roper. This man thought he could have his Arabella. Anderson knew it was unfair to expect Arabella to remain unwed her entire life, but the images of her belonging to this weak, smug little man, sent a violent eruption of rage coursing through him.

 

“Name?”

 

“Thaddeus Burke.”

 

The sound of his voice was grating.  Gutthree put his hand on Anderson’s arm in an attempt to calm him but it did little good. Thaddeus looked toward him as the prosecutor began to ask his next question, his own hatred shining through his dark gaze. Anderson all but snarled back at him. He went through the basic list of questions, setting up the scene, and Anderson could think of nothing that he could possibly say that would hurt his case. They’d never even met.

 

“Did you see Mr. Lawson kill Mr. Jonathan Dupont?” the prosecutor said.

 

“I did,” he responded smoothly.

 

“You dirty fucking snake,” Anderson spit at him. Burke jerked his head toward Anderson. A wave of emotion went through the crowed. “Goddamn you for a liar!”

 

“Mr. Gutthree please inform your client to be quiet or he’ll be removed.”

 

Gutthree already had his hand on Anderson’s chest, trying to calm him.

 

“You’re not helping yourself.”

 

“I wasn’t even fuckin’ there. Was Roper that killed her brother not me,” he shouted. “I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t a hurt her like that.” He looked at the jury. The crowed was in hysterics and the judge was screaming, shiny bald head pulsing red. “I wouldn’t o’ hurt her like that!” he told the six men to his right.

 

“Silence your client or I’ll hold him in contempt!” the judge shouted. “And everyone here will be thrown from the room!”

 

The crowed silenced and Anderson sat down, breathing hard as he looked at Gutthree.

 

“I didn’t kill her brother.”

 

“We’ll have our turn,” he vowed. “We’ll have our turn.”

 

Anderson lowered his hand to his hands and brushed back his hair. He shook his head silently as her old fiancé continued to spew his lies.

 

_I’ll every last one of ‘em if I get out o’ here. ‘N then I’m goin’ back to find my girl._

 

“Liar!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the ground hard. Burke looked toward him, voice soft and face infuriatingly blank.

 

“Mr. Lawson!”

 

“She wasn’t repulsed by me!” he cried to the judge, voice actually cracking. “She didn’t… she didn’t fight me. She loved me!”

 

“As if she could love a dog like you,” Burke fired back. Anderson was on his feet in a moment but Gutthree, far stronger than he appeared forced him back into his chair.

 

“It will not happen again, your honor!” Gutthree called. He lowered himself back down beside Anderson.

 

“See that it does not,” he replied sternly.

 

“Control yourself man,” he bit out. Anderson listened to the rest of the testimony with trembling muscles. He closed his eyes, tried to find a means of acquiring peace. He thought of Arabella. He thought of nothing at all. He sung Dixie to himself. The rage remained. He could die for what he’s done. He could not stomach dying for things which he had not.

                                                                                                                                            

Finally, he was released from the witness stand. His lawyer did his best to prove him a liar, but it did not good. The Yankee was a find liar and too educated to be fooled. He paused as he stood from his chair, and he looked at Frank.  A look of hatred and a look of triumph. Anderson glared after him. He’d cut his throat from ear to ear. He’d skin him alive. He’d carve out his lungs.

 

“Next witness?” the judge asked.

 

“Ah, yes, your honor,” the other lawyer said, raising a hand and motioning toward the door.

 

The murmur that went through the room was loud and one of wonder. The judge actually had to slam down his gavel to quiet them. Even then they did not fall silent. Slowly he turned toward the door, draping his arm across the back of the chair. He wasn’t sure what he felt when he turned to find her standing in the doorway, a man that could be none other than her father standing beside her, looking grim, eyes full of hatred as he looked to Anderson. Anderson did know one thing for sure though, damn, did she look beautiful.

 

-

Arabella felt sick as she felt all the eyes in the room turn on her. She swallowed thickly and lanced to her father for support. He gave a small nod of support, a twitch of a smile, and then pressed a hand to her back. She heard the lawyer announcing her as the first witness and she moved forward with grace and dignity she had thought long lost to her. She glanced to her left to find Roper, smugly leaning amongst the crowed of faces, arms crossed over his chest. He winked at her and she turned her head, revulsion coming through her in waves.

 

Against her will her head turned. The prosecutor was coming toward her with an outstretched hand, gallantry prepared to lead her to the witness stand. She paused when her eyes found Anderson’s. He looked like he was in pain. His lips were parted. Devastated confusion in his eyes. She looked back at her father. He gave another nod. Without a glance to Anderson she stepped forward, placing her gloved hand in the lawyer’s. She was sworn in and took her seat in the unfomrtable wooden chair. She had seen courts back East. This looked like a mockery of a court of law.

 

“May I introduce, Miss Arabella Elise Dupont to the court,” Mr. Fontaine said. “Miss Dupont, is that your name?”

 

“It is,” she whispered.

 

“Firstly, I would like to thank you for joining us today. It has been a rather rough few months for you, I assume.”

 

“It has been eventful,” she answered. She looked to the clock. She took a breath to calm herself.

 

“Now, can you tell me why you came to the west?”

 

“To marry my childhood sweetheart. Mr. Thaddeus Burke.” Her voice was soft but measured. It took everything in her not to look at Anderson. If she did, she would never get through this. Her mind was made up. She had to do this right.

 

“Tell us about coming West.”

 

“My brother escorted me about halfway. I was put on a train to Sante Fe, where I travelled alone.”

 

“What station did your brother leave you at?” he asked. She told him. “And what happened on the train ride into Sante Fe?”

 

“We were stopped by a band of outlaws,” she answered simply.

 

“Elaborate, please, Miss Dupont, I know it is not easy.”

 

“That was the day I first met Friendly Frank Lawson,” she answered. “He…” she laughed softly, a small smile coming to her lips and she looked at her hands, collecting her words. “He was quite charming.”

 

Fontaine paused a moment and looked at her. His checked his notes and nodded slowly.

 

“And what is it he did to you during this first meeting.”

 

“Another man meant to rip the bags from my hand. I did not wish to let my carpet bag go. The picture of my mother was inside,” she explained, looking over to make eye contact with the men of the jury. “He stopped the man from striking me.”

 

“And what else did he do?” Fontaine asked, a bit edging its way into his voice.

 

“He…” she lowered her face and closed her eyes. “He kissed me.”

 

A murmur went through the audience.

 

“Did you consent to this kiss?”

 

“I did not,” she replied honestly.

 

“How did you feel when he left?”

 

“I was frightened. I told everyone what had happened but no one seemed to believe me. Everyone told me that Friendly Frank Lawson would not force a kiss on a well to do woman. I am here to prove otherwise.”

 

“Did you feel violated?”

 

“At first I did yes,” she replied. He looked up sharply. He chose not to ask her what he meant.

 

“The second time you met Friendly Frank Lawson, what happened?”

 

“He came upon me once when I was taking my daily walk to the river on my cousin’s land.”

 

She saw Anderson look up out of the corner of her eye. She watched Fontaine’s head dart upward as well.

 

“I am sorry.”

 

“A few of those meetings followed,” she pushed on. “It was… it was only a few days… before his attempts at seductions succeeded.”

 

“Miss Dupont.”

 

“I could not run away,” she said more earnestly. “I had to think of my family. The scandal. I told him if he wanted me he would have to steal me. He promised he would. Vowed that he would take care of me. After the first failure, I got word to him where to find me –”

 

“Miss Dupont –” Fontaine began sharply.

 

“He sacrificed his own reputation to shield my own, but I cannot let him die for something he did not do,” she said and turned her face toward Anderson this time, not the Jury. Her heart rushed with very real love. “And he didn’t kill my brother. It was Captain Roper. Thaddeus just stood by and watched like a coward.”

 

“Miss Dupont!”

 

His lips were parted and he was leaned forward toward her, hand gripping the edge of the table tightly.

 

“I love you,” she told him.

 

“ _Ms. Dupont_!”

 

“Oh, goddamn, darlin’ do I love you,” he smiled. She bit her lower lip, cheeks now hurting from the smile that came to her face as she gazed at him Tears filled her eyes.

 

“Your honor!”

 

The judge began to bang on his gavel. The court house in a frenzy of excitement. Arabella chanced a glance toward her father to find him grim faced, eyes wide, and face glowing red. She looked back to Anderson. The judge was yelling for order and Arabella looked to the jury.

 

“Please, do not take from me the father of my child.”

 

Those close enough to hear her plea to the jury erupted and soon the entire town hall was once again a mass of commotion. People were yelling to set Anderson free. A woman had fainted. A man was holding her up, but staring at his friends beside him with wide eyes and an open mouth.

 

In the short span of two minutes she had completely destroyed any chance she had of being welcomed back into upper class society. Journalists were scribbling frantically. Some already running to the telegraph to tell the paper’s back East. She cared little. Her sole interest was in saving the life of the man in front of her. She clutched at her stomach and the men of the jury watched the motion closely. She let tears come to her eyes as she looked back at them, but it was not so difficult given the emotions she was feelings.

 

“Please, sirs, do not kill the father of my baby.”

 

She pressed her hand to her forehead and gave a little swoon. She closed her eyes, focusing momentarily on the sound of the judge’s barks for order and sound of his gavel slamming down on the wood of the table in front of him.

 

* * *

Arabella felt good about their chances. Mr. Fontaine had been brutal when she finally retook the stand. He accused her of being a liar, a fornicator and an adulterer. She had stood her ground, taking his insults and his abuse, breaking down in tears when necessary, remaining firm and obstinate when needed. The jury was on her side, the audience on Anderson’s, the judge on Fontaine’s. But when she was finally able to step down at the end of an unexpected six-hour day on the stand, she felt confident. She felt less confident about surviving the night herself.

 

The judge released the jury for the evening and ordered them to return in the morning to deliberate. As Arabella walked toward her father, her legs were numb. He said nothing as he offered his arm to her and she did everything she could to avoid Thaddeus’s eye contact. She would rather pretend he didn’t exist at all. As they walked their way through the streets, she received shouts of support and cries of solidarity. Not once was a nasty word thrown her way. She was actually rather surprised.

 

“Papa?”

 

“Silence,” he said and she lowered her face. They entered the hotel and she was ordered to her room. As she waited for her father to come into the room, she clutched at her rosary, running her fingers over the beads. She did not pray for herself. Even if she received a beating, the first beating she would ever receive from her father, it was Anderson she worried for. She could survive a beating now. The prospect no longer frightened her.

 

When the door did swing open she felt a stab of fear. Her father walked in with a little plate of dinner and put it on her night stand. He lowered herself to rest against the bureau and crossed his arms over his chest.  

 

“Whatever the outcome of this joke of a court, you are returning to Rhode Island with me tomorrow, and we will find a suitable convent for you to join.”

 

She looked up at him.

 

“Should your words of a baby be true, the nuns will find a place for it.”

 

She blinked.

 

“Should my words be true this is your only chance at an heir,” she responded. He looked up, eyes cold and face full of silent rage, but he did not raise his voice. He never had.

 

“You killed your brother,” he murmured. “If not for your antics, he would still be alive and I would have my son.”

 

The pain that shot through her heart like a shard of glass was shocking, but she responded with a cold smile and an indignant snort.

 

“I must be a find actress then, if even you believed me,” she murmured. There were a few beats of silence.

 

“Regardless of the truth… whether you left with him then… you side with him now,” he said.

 

“Captain Roper killed Jonathan. Shot him through the heart right in front of me,” Arabella murmured. “He wanted to kill me….” She was too tired to find any other words. “I am sorry, papa.”

 

He nodded slowly and stood.

 

“I am sorry too,” he moved to the door. “I will see you to Rhode Island. After that, I never wish to see you again.” She looked up through watery eyes. “You are no daughter of mine.”

 

Arabella slowly lowered herself to her bed. She clutched the rosary more tightly. Frantically she whispered out her prayers, fingers twirling on each bead. She prayed for Anderson. All the while, hot tears trailed down her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

Anderson scanned the court room as the men of the jury walked back in. He couldn’t find Arabella. He found Roper’s smiling face. He found Burke’s dark gaze. He spotted who he believed to be Arabella’s father. He found many a smiling, supportive face. The only one he could not find was the one he wanted most.

 

 _She’s listenin’ for once,_ he thought. _In case you hang. She won’t be here to see it._

 

The gallows were built. He saw them as he walked from the jail. It was odd, seeing them and knowing they were there for him this time. A means of escape now eluded him. Extra soldiers had been brought in from the fort. The number of people now in Sante Fe. The anger they would feel if he were found guilty. He swallowed thickly and lowered his face toward the floor. He said a little prayer but he knew it would do no good. No good at all.

 

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

 

“We have your honor,” the foreman said.

 

“How do you find the defendant on cattle theft, petty larceny, and public vulgarity?”

 

“Not guilty,” he answered and a murmur of happiness rang through those present. Another series of bangs from the gavel. Silence.

 

“How do you find the defendant in the kidnapping of Miss Arabella Dupont?”

 

“We find the defendant, not guilty,” he answered. A louder cheer. Another series of bangs. This times shouts.

 

“How do you find the defendant in the forcible rape of Miss Arabella Dupont?”

 

“We find the defendant not guilty.”

 

“And for the murder of Jonathan Dupont. How do you find?”

 

“No guilty.”

 

The courtroom cheered. People hugged and Anderson sat there in stunned silence, a little smile on his face. He gave a laugh and shook his head. If anyone deserved death it was him. He looked up at the sky and thanked the lord.

 

 _I’ll do right by you for this,_ he vowed. _I’ll do right._

 

“Thank you, gentlemen of the jury, you may be dismissed.”

 

The jury began filing out when the lawyer spoke.

 

“Your honor, the state requests you put aside the jury verdict considering the multitude of evidence placed before the court and place a judgement notwithstanding the verdict.”

 

“It is so ordered. Anderson Francis Lawson, you are hereby sentenced to hanging from the neck until dead. Noon, September the 30th, year of our lord eighteen hundred and seventy-one. Court dismissed.”

 

Anderson heard the sound of the gavel over the screams of fury and Anderson sagged back in his chair. Well, if ever a cruel prank had been played on him, this was the one to remember.

 

* * *

 

“Want anything special?” the sheriff asked softly as Anderson sat in jail.

 

“Can you write somethin’ for me?” he whispered, voice hoarse. The sheriff nodded sadly. He walked over to his desk and retrieved a pen and paper. He settled down on the floor before Anderson’s cell.  “Umm… my pretty Yankee,” he started and the sheriff scribbled. “I’m sorry for the things I done. I’m sorry for hurtin’ you, ‘n, ‘n makin’ your life harder. ‘n uh… I’m gon’ be thinkin’ on you, where ever I end up, I’ll be thinkin’ on you and uh…”

 

He paused and closed his eyes. One tear fell down his cheek.

 

“I want you to be happy. I want you to… name the baby… name the baby Lillian if it’s a girl. Lilly”

 

He raised a quivering hand to his mouth.

 

“’N I’m sorry. I’m sorry. ‘Cause I know I’m leavin’ you in a jam. ‘N it’s my fault ‘n… ‘n I’m sorry. I love you. Think on me but not too much.” He sniffled. “I can sign my name.”

 

“What? Oh,” the sheriff said and slid the pen and paper to him. He signed it the best he could. He slid it back and sagged back against the wall.

 

“You make sure she gets that? Arabella Dupont. Wherever she might be. Make sure she gets it?”

 

The sheriff nodded. He had tears in his eyes.

 

“She really did run away with you, didn’t she?” he asked softly. Anderson looked out toward the window. The sheriff eventually moved on over to his desk. None of the other prisoners bothered him the rest of the night. He did not remember falling asleep, but he awoke to the door opening and sun coming in and shining in his eyes. Three soldiers stood at the ready, one with rope in his hands. The sheriff stood by grimly.

 

“Time to go, Mr. Lawson.”

 

Anderson nodded. He got to his feet slowly. Each step her took was small and measured. He wanted to enjoy his last few moments on earth.

 

His hands were grabbed and forced behind his back roughly. He put up no fight, but they clearly did not trust him. He walked slowly out of the doors, met by a sea of sad faces. Some women were crying. Men had their hats pressed to their checks. He was always liked from a far, feared by many, a fun story to tell at a tavern. He found it odd they all loved him so much now. He let himself be amused by it and he smiled.

 

“I miss a funeral?” he mused and as forced down the deck. There was some laughter but it only seemed to sadden people further. He walked before the soldiers. They let him take his time now, so long as he kept moving. He stared up at the gallows. He looked at the noose that was soon to be around his neck. He examined the hangman.

 

"Anderson."

 

He paused. The soldiers let him stop. He turned his head slowly to find her there amongst the sea of sad faces. She was as beautiful as he ever had seen. Dressed in a fine dress, her hands clutching a little bag, fingers red and knuckles white. He wondered if he was dead already. If this was an angel come to take him to heaven. Then he remembered. He wasn't going to heaven. 

 

"My my darlin'," he purred with a tiny smile. "Ain't you a sight. You do work me up, dressed up like that." 

 

He turned to face her fully, that charming smile on his face. Her eyes were wet but she was not crying. Her eyes looked puffy though. Her night had been a long one.

 

"Now I told you I didn't want you seeing this,” he scolded lightly.

 

"I never did listen to you," she answered with a smile. A murmur went through the crowed as he stepped toward her. The soldiers did not try to stop him. He gave a smile. 

 

"One for the road?" he asked as he stopped before her. She smiled, but her eyes pooled. She tilted her head to the side.

 

She reached up, soft and fragile hands pressing to his stubbly cheeks. Her thumbs stroked his cheeks gently, her eyes darted across his face.

 

“I wouldn’t have changed it for the world,” she whispered. She looked into his eyes a moment longer before she pulled him down to press a kiss to his mouth. The murmur in the ground grew. He felt himself being ripped from her embrace too soon. As he left her she slipped his hat from his head and pressed it to her chest.

 

"That's enough," the young blue back said. It was drowned out by the restless crowed. 

 

"Let him go!"

 

"It wasn't no stealin'!"

 

"Let Friendly Frank go!" 

 

"Friendly Frank's a gentleman!!"

 

He was dragged away from Arabella. Tears spilled over her cheeks now, but with such dignity, such grace, he was once again struck with awe. He could not look away. His head was angled over his shoulder as he was nudged toward the gallows. Even for a short time, she was his, and she had wanted to be. 

 

His legs were like rock as he climbed the steps. He saw the hangman. He looked out. He found John and Blackjack there amongst the sea of people. His lips twitched and he gave a nod. They stood in the back, sucking on their cigars, each with a bottle of whiskey in their hands. Blackjack stared ahead grimly. John kept his head down, a hand on the back of his neck. Whatever had happened, whatever reason they weren’t there to warn him, he loved them like brothers he never had. His only regret is that he wouldn’t ever get the chance to tell them.

 

He looked back at Arabella as they listed off his crimes. They did not list rape. He gave her a smile and a nod. She clutched his hat to chest. He wished he could reach up and touch the scarf. He should have given it back to her. 

 

"Any last words?" He was asked. He stared at Arabella a few moments in silence. Her face was crumpled. Tears streamed down her cheeks. His heart hurt. 

 

The bag was put over his head. His breathing remained calm but his heart clamored. He felt the noose. He didn't want her to see it. _Let my neck snap. Please God, I can only ask you for that._

 

"One. Two."

 

The trap door fell open and his body went plummeting to the ground. 


	27. 27

**1921**

 

The old man was ripped from his recollection by the sound of a little voice. Blue eyes popped open, staring out from a wrinkled, puffy face. 

 

"Grand-papa, finish the story!" The youngest whined, holding his freshly polished shoes before him and rocking happily back and forth on his bottom. 

 

"We want to hear the end! How'd you get away?"

 

"Did grand-mama save you?" 

 

"Did savages show up?" 

 

"The crowed saved him!"

 

"The hangman cut the rope!"

 

The older children sat in the back of the room smiling fondly at the cankerous old man, waiting to hear what ending he might come up with this time. 

 

"He can finish the story when we return," Jonathan said, stepping in from the doorway and releasing his sisters arm. 

 

"It's time to leave."

 

Some of the children whined but all rose from the sitting room, moving away from the fire and putting on their coats. A little girl spun around happily, unaware of the sadness that gripped the household.

 

"Father?"

 

Those old tired eyes looked up, vividly blue, but red and puffy. All his years, Jonathan had never seen his father cry. 

 

"I'm ready," he grumbled and reached for his walking stick.

 

Jonathan took him by the elbow and received a vicious swat of the cane.

 

"Hands off me boy I don't need no goddamned help. What do I look like to you?"

 

Jonathan took a step back and looked toward his sister. She was smiling through her damp eyes, holding a rag to her nose and shaking her head. 

 

"The car is ready, papa," Lillian told him, patting her oldest on the cheek as he slowly left the room. 

 

"I hope he tells the one where the Confederates come in the save him," young Timothy said to her. 

 

"Goddamn monstrosity," he grumbled. "Know what that means?" He asked Francis, jabbing the cane at him as he slowly made his way through the sitting room. "Your mother knew what that meant. We used to ride horses and treck, treck for miles... now we get in a little train with no track."

 

He let Lillian take his arm. 

 

"Your mother, she hated those things," he grumbled. "And these, these monstrous things." 

 

He jabbed at an electric lamp with his cane. He almost broke the glass. With a quivering hand he reached into his coat. His pulled out a little flask. Jonathan shook his head when Francis made to protest. The old man raised the flask to stubbly face, white hairs poking out from his leathery skin. 

 

"Witchcraft. Goddamn Yankees can't leave well enough alone."

 

"Papa, the children," Francis cautioned. 

 

He took his sons arms as he slowly descended the stairs. Lillian walked ahead with his cane and top hat. 

 

"Father?" Francis asked as the old man lowered a frail leg to the middle step. "One day - might you tell us what really happened?"

 

"One day," the man grumbled. "Boy speaks like I'm not dying' any day now." 

 

"Papa," Lillian scolded. 

 

"Well, what happened to John and Blackjack? Archibald Roper and Thaddeus Burke. Grandfather, when did he forgive mother?"

Lillian turned to look at Jonathan, a little smile on her lips. 

 

"I tell you when that old man forgave your mother. On his goddamn death bed, called for us, priest told him he had to do right. Worst think I done. Lettin' that woman baptize you catholic. Priests think they know, but they don’t. I talked to him. Right to him. Myself. I don’t need no goddman man in a dress to tell me what He’s thinkin’. I had a weakness for her though. Sweetest Yankee ever did see." 

 

His body trembled as they got to the last step. He kept his hold on his sons as they walked outside. Lillian came closer with his greatcoat. 

 

"I used to sleep outside in the dirt, your mother 'n me. Now I need a goddamn coat for a little rain."

 

None of his children told him he should stay home. He wouldn't listen. 

 

"Papa?" Francis said and offered his arm.

 

"What am I a goddamn woman?" He asked. He walked on, offering a thin arm to his daughter. "Come now Lilly Belle."

 

She walked him out into the cold rain. 

 

"You look like her. When she was young."

 

Who, Lillian did not know. Some days it was his long lost sister. Some days his beloved wife. 

 

Lillian patted his wrinkled hand. He leaned against her as they walked to the car. He stared at the window silently as they drove to the church. Rain pelted against the window and he pressed his forehead to it. 

 

Shoulders hunched he jabbed his cane into the bottom of the car. 

 

"Goddamn priest lecture me about cursin'" grumbled. Lillian and Jonathan smiled at each other, neither saying a word as Francis watched on with disapproval as their father retrieved the flask and a cigar from his coat. 

 

"Goddamned fuckin' suit," he continued to grumble. His hands trembled and Francis reached out. "I can light my own goddamn cigar. Is that why your mama paid for you to go to college? So you can light someone else's cigar?" 

 

"No papa," Francis murmured. His father did not stop him from

lighting it. 

 

"Father Wright won't let you smoke that there," Francis told him. 

 

"Father Wright can go to hell."

 

"Papa!" Came the scolding gasp from Lillian. 

 

They walked into the church slowly, passing genuinely sad mourners and those who simply wanted to see the old outlaw before he died. He ignored them all. 

 

He paused at the door of the church, staring down the long isle at the casket ahead. 

 

"Aint right," he shook his head. He leaned on his cane and his daughter alike. "Aint right." 

 

He raised a cloth to his mouth and hacked as he walked up the aisle.

 

He drew eyes. Of wonder. Of awe. Of repulsion. After the cough passed he raised the cigar to his lips. 

 

His eyes were sad as he walked toward the casket. He leaned more heavily on his daughter. He lowered himself down in the pew and waited for the mass to start. He kept his chin raised high. 

 

He gripped the cane hard as he listened to the priest’s words. Once, Jonathan thought he saw a tear in the old man’s eyes. His bending back hunched further and he closed his eyes. It was hard to say if he slept or not.

 

“Father,” Jonathan said as they stepped from the church at the end of Mass. “Mother would understand if you wish to go home.”

 

He looked up at the cold raining coming down from the gray sky.

 

“No. She’ll give me hell if I do,” he grumbled. Jonathan frowned and the old man moved down the steps himself. Jonathan sighed and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

 

“Do you know what happened?” Francis asked, coming to stand beside him. Jonathan lit his cigarette for him.

 

“Just the stories he’s told,” he answered, blowing out a gust of smoke from between his lips. Francis considered that. With his mother now gone, he was suddenly acutely aware that soon the only two people who knew what _really_ happened out in the desert would be gone.

 

Francis lowered his face to the ground, his hat blocking out the rain, and thought of his mother. Jonathan sighed and patted his shoulder.

 

“Come on,” he murmured softly and the two made their way to the car. Jonathan gave his daughter a hug before sending her off, back to the wife that held his wife and brother-in-law. He smiled at her through the rain, lifting a hand in greeting. She gave a sad smile in turn and blew a little kiss.

 

Jonathan examined his father as they rode to the cemetery. He tried to imagine what he might have looked like in those days. He tried to imagine what kind of man he was. He knew the stories. _All_ the stories. He had only ever been able to believe what his mother told him. She fell in love with him. She ran away with him. How the man that raised him, gruff and crass but loving and kind, could be the man they said he was…

 

His father stared out the window grimly, twirling the wedding ring around his finger. Jonathan had never seen such sadness. Such longing. He looked lost.

 

“Papa?” Lillian asked from beside him, taking his hand and patting it. “Are you well enough for this?”

 

“Nothin’ gon’ keep me from it,” he answered. His voice was hoarse. He raised a cloth and cough. He dabbed his eyes. “You littl’ns really believe all that… all that repentance bull shit them priests try’n put on you?”

 

“Of course,” they all murmured softly. Their father nodded and looked back out the window.

 

“He better… better keep His bargain… all I gon’ say.”

 

“Bargain, father?” Francis asked. He fell silent and no one pressed.

 

It was raining when they stepped from the car and walked to the family burial plot. The old man moved slowly, leaning hard on his cane, gripping Francis’ hand hard. He stopped them half way to the plot. He lifted his flask and took a sip, tucked it back into his coat, and they pressed on.

 

The grandchild met them there, circling around the grandfather they so loved. He swatted more than one with his cane before relenting and allowing them to stand near him.

 

Francis tried to take his father away once the final words had been spoken. Slowly people began to turn away. Friends. New Money. Those that didn’t mind the entrance of a poor country boy into their circle.

 

The old man walked toward the mound of dirt slowly. A surprised worker looked with wide eyes as he took the shovel from his hands, throwing the cane down in the mud. He hunched, body creaking, muscles straining, and pressed the shovel into the dirt. The children remained, watching their father shovel the first onto their mother’s casket.

 

It took some time, standing there in the freezing rain, watching their father finish his work. He would not stop until it be finished. The worker left with a large welt on his forehead. Proof that one did not try to take something from the famed outlaw, even at 81 years old.

 

“He’s going to catch his death,” Francis murmured, watching his father sadly.

 

“I think he knows that,” Lillian whispered.

 

He threw the shovel down when he was done. He needed help to retrieve his cane.

 

“I gave him my soul,” he said as his children brought him back to the car, wet and shivering, a small, little shell of the man he once was. “I gave it all up so I could be with her. I want forever.”

 

He was bundled up and put into a warm bed once they returned home. He took a ratty old scarf from the wardrobe, almost killed a servant with a crack of the cane to the head, and wrapped it around his neck. He got a kiss from his three children. He was asleep before they left the room.

 

-

 

Jonathan sat in his mother’s office with a small glass of scotch and a cigarette, looking at the papers sadly, hair ruffled, shirt sleeves rolled up and coat and tie discarded. A small smile came to his face when he picked up an old photograph. The only one their father ever sat for. He was older then, some fifteen years after they came home from the desert, sitting with his wife and children for their only full family portrait.  Jonathan touched his mother’s face with his thumb.

 

He looked up when he heard a soft knock on the door. He scratched his forehead with the hand that held the scotch and smiled as his wife entered. She came forward with a little plate of dinner for him.

 

“How are you?” she asked, stroking back his hair gently.

 

“Tired,” he answered. “Mama kept immaculate books. Shouldn’t be too hard to take over.”

 

She smiled when she spotted the photo in his hand and slowly slid into his lap. She took it from him and examined it a while.

 

“That man… dark secrets bottled up inside of him,” she said and put the photograph down. Jonathan picked up the photograph.

 

“Whatever he did before. Mother forgave him,” he murmured. His wife nodded and leaned down to kiss him.

 

“I will leave you to your thoughts. When you’re ready, you know where I’ll be.”

 

He smiled and pulled her down for one more kiss. He watched her leave the room and, with one last look at the photograph, moved to unlock the bottom drawer.  He did and reached down with a groan, pulling out a messy bundle of papers. He plopped it down on the desk and moved through it. His lips parted as he found newspaper clipping after newspaper clipping. Reward posters. Bulletins. Telegrams.

 

“1871,” he whispered. He reached forward suddenly and rang the bell. A servant almost immediately appeared. “Gregory, my brother and sister please? Here?”

 

“Sir.”

 

When they arrived he was thumbing through a little book. It took him a moment to realize it was his mother’s handwriting. It took him a few moments longer to realize what it was he had in his hand. He snapped the book shut and looked to his siblings.

 

“Look,” he said excitedly. “1871 newspaper reporting the trial of Anderson Francis ‘Friendly Frank’ Lawson. The hanging… the…”

 

His lips parted and he looked at the book. His brother Francis came rushing forward, picking up the clipping and reading it frantically.  Lillian looked around in wonder. Her hands found a little folded piece of paper and she pulled it from the stack.

 

“When did mama and papa marry?” she asked. Jonathan and Francis looked up.

 

“Um.. New York City. 1873.”

 

She held up a piece of paper.

 

“St. Paul, Minnesota, November 19th, 1871,” she said, handing Jonathan the paper. Francis hurried around the desk to read.

 

“They were already married,” Francis breathed, taking the marriage certificate from his hand.

 

“Oh my,” Lilian breathed. “Look.”

 

She handed him a photograph. His lips parted. He’d never seen either of his parents so young. He examined it, suddenly seized with excitement.

 

“Look!” he cried, “Look.” He turned to look up at Francis, almost giggling. “It’s that blasted pink scarf!”

 

Sure enough, as the three circled around, they examined the fabric wrapped around their seated father’s neck.

 

“He was so handsome,” Lillian murmured happily.

 

“There’s something on the back.”

 

Francis tried to take it from Jonathan but the oldest brother ripped his hand away. He flipped it over and they read, written in their mother’s hand:

 

_St. Paul Minnesota. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson Lawson. Nov. 20 th, 1871._

 

“Just after they married.”

 

“When was it they came home?”

 

“Just before Grandfather died.”

 

“In ’85?”

 

“Yes, if my memory serves me well,” Jonathan answered.

 

“Look,” Francis smiled. He pointed to their parents. On their father, three guns were visible. On their mother, two.

 

“There’s so much we don’t know,” Lillian said sadly.

Francis scooped up a paper. He read it slowly and Jonathan looked down to the little book.

 

“A pardon…” he said. “From the governor of Rhode Island.”

 

The three examined it.

 

“Then he was a criminal,” Francis said. “Those stories are true.”

 

“Was he really hung?”

 

“I think we’re proof he wasn’t,” Lillian replied sarcastically.

 

“You know my meaning,” he replied.

 

“The old man won’t ever tell us,” Francis said dejectedly. “He can’t.”

 

Jonathan took the book back into his hands and leafed through it. He paused as a little piece of paper fell out. Lillian and Francis looked to it.

 

Jonathan glanced at them as he picked it up and opened it slowly.

 

“My pretty Yankee,” he read, “I’m sorry for the things I done. I’m sorry for hurting you. For making your life harder. I’ll be thinking on you where I end up, I’ll be thinking on you. I want you to be happy. Name the baby Lillian if it’s a girl. Lilly. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Cause I know I’m leaving you in a jam. It’s my fault and I’m sorry. I love you. Think on me but not too much. Anderson Lawson 1871.”

 

Francis took it and read it over before surrendering it to Lillian.

 

“Mother kept a journal,” he murmured. He raised it up. “Starts on January 1st, 1872. The first entry…” he paused and looked through it before snapping it shut. “The first entry explains how she fell in love with Friendly Frank Lawson.”

 

All remained there in silence.  

 

“Does it… have up to the hanging?”

 

Jonathan flipped through to the end of the entry.

 

“It has up till the wedding,” he answered. “The first one.”

 

More silence followed.

 

“What do we do?” Jonathan asked.

 

“We read it,” Francis replied.

 

“There might be things in this book we don’t want to know,” he cautioned. “Things… things that are best left forgotten.”

 

They all remained silent. Jonathan was the first to look toward the fire. Lillian next. Francis last. They stood there a long time, listening to the flame crackle and the rain beat against the windows outside.

 

-

 

**1871**

 

Arabella had closed her eyes when she saw the hangman pull the lever. Her body swayed and bile rose in her throat. A pain like she had never felt before surging through her and ripping her heart to a thousand little pieces. The cry of awe that went through the crowed brought more tears rushing down over her cheeks.

 

But then there was naught but silence. A hush fell through the multitude present. The sun beat down hard on her face. Slowly she opened her eyes, praying she would find his body hanging limply from the rope. She did not, but neither did she find his body squirming, his feet searching desperately for the ground. Her lips parted. She saw nothing. Nothing but a frayed rope and blue sky.

 

She moved and the sea of people parted for her. Wide eyes watching as she pushed through the crowed. She found him on the ground, noose around his neck, staring up at the broken rope. Slowly his eyes found hers.

 

In a sudden rush she was at his side on her knees, holding his face and looking at him in wonder. She pet his face, stroked his hair.

 

“Darlin’,” he breathed. “I promised him he got me outa this I’d do right. I even promised no more cussin’. You don’t think He’ll hold me to that do you?”

 

Tears burst from her eyes and she threw her arms around his neck, holding him tightly. He pressed his face to hers but his hands remained bound behind his back.

 

“God saved him!”

 

“The rope broke!”

 

“It’s a sign! A sign from God!”

 

The crowd went wild. But when a group of soldiers converged on them, the cheering halted.

 

“Let him go!” someone screamed.

 

“That was God willin’! Don’t you go back on God!”

 

“This is a dangerous man!” the judge called. “A criminal! A rapist and murderer! He –”

 

It was chaos. The soldiers were pulled from Arabella and Anderson, someone cut through his binds, and controlled by the rush of the crowed they were delivered to a pair of fresh horses. Frank accepted a man’s gun and knife. The crowed behind them was tearing the screaming judge to pieces.

 

“An honor, sir, an honor,” the man kept saying. Anderson took the knife and cut a slit in the side of Arabella’s dress.

 

“I’ll finish the job later,” he grinned and she pulled him into a kiss. Those around them cheered them on. Arabella could hardly hear herself think as he broke away. He helped her up on the horse before taking his own.

 

They rode and they rode fast into the desert. Arabella followed Anderson, trusting in him to lead them true. A few hours later they came to a halt. He turned his horse toward hers and smiled with a shake of the head.

 

“Where we goin’ to darlin’?” he asked. “Anywhere you wan’go. Wan’ start again on Roper? Wan-”

 

“I don’t care about that anymore. Any of that,” she panted. “I want to be as far from here as possible. I never want to come back.”

 

“You ‘n me both, sweetheart,” he said. He came forward and kissed her. He pulled back and looked at her. “I’m gon’ do right by you,” he promised. “I’m gon’ do right.”

 

She smiled and bit her lip.

 

“Minnesota,” she whispered to him.

 

“Minnesota,” he nodded. He smiled, gave one more hard kiss to her lips, and whirled his horse around. They rode on for hours. Away from death and revenge and pain. They rode away from anything and everything that had mattered before. And no matter who said they didn’t belong together it didn’t matter. Because apparently, not even death, could keep them apart.

 

-

**1921**

 

Jonathan walked toward his father in bed and sat down beside him. He was the last of the children to be called to his bedside. Their father had developed a terrible cough. A painful cough. He touched his father chest gently and gave a little smile. His father raised a hand and pointed a trembling finger to his side drawer. Jonathan reached inside.

 

“The watch,” he croaked. He coughed hard again and raised the pink scarf to his mouth, now faded, almost purple, almost white. Jonathan retrieved it and handed it to his father. The old man shook his head and pushed it back toward Jonathan. “Yours.”

 

Jonathan looked down and nodded slowly. He felt tears coming to his eyes.

 

“Your mother…” he breathed. “Saved my soul…”

 

Jonathan nodded slowly.

 

“I was… supposed to die a long time ago…” he paused to catch his breath. It was painful to breath. “She… should o’ outlived me.”

 

“She became ill, papa,” he whispered. His father shook his head.

 

He motioned for the dresser. Jonathan looked and then rose. He returned with the laudanum. He put it in his father’s hand. He coughed, a rattling cough, and his father winced. He tried to picture the strong, handsome young man in the photograph. It amazed him the two were on and the same.

 

“I loved her somethin’ fierce,” he told him. “Always will.”

 

“I know,” he whispered.

 

“I love you,” he said. Jonathan kept himself from crying. Not in front of this man. He’d heard that from his father so few times in his life. He knew it was true. He never doubted his love. But he realized this would be the last time he’d be hearing it.

 

“I love you too, papa,” he whispered.

 

“You teach those little’ns right. Specially little Anderson.”

 

Jonathan laughed.

 

“I will.”

 

“You bring ‘em to Georgia. You make sure they know,” he winced and coughed. “You tell ‘em now. Confederate soldier, proud…”

 

“They know,” he promised. “You’ve raised good southern Yankees.”

 

His father laughed but it soon turned into a fit of painful coughs.

 

“You are certain you do not want the priest.”

 

“That was for you mother,” he waved a tired hand. “Me ‘n Him… we’ve talked.”

 

Jonathan nodded.

 

“I am proud to be able to call you father,” Jonathan said. A tear did fall from his eye but his father did not berate him. His tired blue eyes softened and he patted his chest.

 

“You’re a good man, son. A man I couldn’t never be,” he wheezed. “You take care o’ Lilly. Never did… never did like that husband of hers.”

 

Jonathan nodded slowly. He did not trust himself to speak. He slowly uncorked the laudanum. His father’s hands were too weak.

 

“Go on,” he finally said, jerking his chin. He brought his trembling hand to the scarf and raised it to his nose. Jonathan stood and held out his hand. His father offered his and he held it a long time.

 

“I’ll have a servant see if you are well enough for dinner,” Jonathan said with a pained smile. His father nodded. He choked on his own tears. Slowly Jonathon walked from the room. His father had the bottle pressed to his lips. He was sound asleep long before he stopped breathing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW someone’s going to say this is cheesy. Well I know that and I like it. And ropes did break during hangings, so it’s not like it never happened.
> 
>  
> 
> In all seriousness, I was going to add a little paragraph at the bottom that would have drastically changed the meaning of this ending, but I simply didn’t have it me. I might post it alternatively in a standalone for those of you that want the darker, far sadder alternative. Me, I write because it’s fun, and I don’t really want to depress myself. I’m a “happy” ending type person.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I know there are some flaws in this story. One day, when I have time, I’d love to go back and polish them up. Today is not that day. However, constructive feedback will always be welcome.
> 
>  
> 
> I know it is the last chapter, but please, let me know what you thought of the story. Even if you’ve never reviewed, it would really mean a lot to me to hear your final thoughts.
> 
>  
> 
> Expect the new story in a few weeks to a month or two. I still don’t have an ending yet, though I have it mostly all worked out. School is also picking up, so I need to be mindful of that.
> 
>  
> 
> Again, please review and let me know what you thought of the story.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and supported the story! I hope you will enjoy the next one as well!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very much appreciated.


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